


Far Above Rubies

by tree



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: -Ish, Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Epistolary, F/M, Feelings Realization, Female Friendship, Fencing, Gender Role Reversal, Kissing, Love Confessions, Marriage Proposal, Older Woman/Younger Man, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Regency Romance, The Author Regrets Everything, Unconventional Courtship Generator, What Was I Thinking?, bending history to my will, though really it's more Austen-esque
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 18:53:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25780123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tree/pseuds/tree
Summary: After years of dangerous fighting, Captain Kathryn Janeway returns home to take up family duties and find herself a husband. But her life is thrown into turmoil when she views a fencing lesson unlike any other. The talented student is a handsome young man — and the most infamous corteso in all of London — Le Chevalier.Who is the mysterious Le Chevalier? Eager to uncover the true man behind the façade, Kathryn wagers she can win a kiss from him if she bests him at fencing. Though he is a man she can not afford to keep, she’s willing to risk it all to win his heart.
Relationships: Chakotay/Kathryn Janeway
Comments: 91
Kudos: 113
Collections: Unconventional Courtship





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coffeeblack75](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeblack75/gifts).



> written for the unconventional courtship challenge and based on the summary of 'the courtesan' by julia justiss. everything i know about this period in history i learned from jane austen and wikipedia; the rest i've just made up. a note on terminology: the accepted male form of 'courtesan' is 'gigolo' but i really dislike it — and besides, it arose several hundred years after 'courtesan' — so i invented another. my universe, my rules. (oh, the power!) some important fashion considerations may be found [here](http://hoidn.tumblr.com/post/157572773465/notyourplayground-dress-for-the-regency-au-you).
> 
> dear coffeeblack75, even though this isn't one of the options you preferred, it insisted on being written. perhaps you will consider it a down payment?

Kathryn Janeway examined herself in the glass a final time. Six months spent indoors had somewhat softened skin weathered by too long at sea, but her scars were made all the more apparent by the gradual return to her former pallor.

Was it any wonder eligible young men shied from her? War hero she might have been, but no gentleman desired marriage to a withered husk. Oh, she had her health, her figure, and a long life remaining, God willing. Yet what did they matter to the callousness of youth when balanced against a blighted visage?

Though not a vain woman, she could admit that she felt the sting of losing her former consequence. Once, she had been considered quite handsome; gentlemen had vied for her notice and attention. At the time she'd thought little of them or of marriage at all. Her eyes had been firmly fixed on the masts of the ships that her mother commanded. Then, marriage had been a far-off something to be dealt with later. Now, 'later' was arrived but her prospects were few. While her income still attracted the less squeamish of the male sex, or at least their papas, Janeway had no interest in wedding a fortune hunter. 

With a rueful sigh, she turned from the glass and smiled at her valet. "Thank you, Wildman. Your handiwork is excellent, as ever."

Wildman acknowledged the compliment with a nod. "Thank you, Captain. Will you be dining with the family this evening?"

"Our plans are not yet fixed, but I believe Lieutenant Torres and I shall dine at my club. You needn't wait up."

"Very good, Captain."

Janeway eyed her. "You'll wait up nonetheless, won't you?"

"Yes, Captain."

"I am perfectly capable of undressing myself, you know."

"Of course, Captain."

Shaking her head in affectionate resignation, Janeway donned her gloves. "Some day I shall succeed in curing you of your insistent coddling."

Wildman merely smiled placidly before turning to tidy the dressing table. "Yes, Captain."

§

Ascani's was far more crowded than Janeway could recall having witnessed before. Beyond the duos engaged in tutelage, at the rear of the practice space where the wide windows let in the greatest amount of light, a large cluster of women had formed a loose half circle around some point of interest.

"Has London developed a sudden passion for fencing in my absence?" Janeway asked her friend.

"It isn't the sport but the performer who inspires such passion," Torres replied as she steered them in that direction.

Military trim had become all the rage since the war began, but ten years in the service of Her Royal Majesty's Navy had given Janeway her fill of it. Now she noted absently that her attire was far plainer and less gaudy than the rest of the crowd's, rendering her quite unremarkable alongside the deep blue of the lieutenant's uniform. With some amusement, she observed several looks of admiration aimed at Torres as the spectators parted to allow her to pass. Janeway simply followed in her wake until they were able to take places at the front of the audience for an unimpeded view.

Faced with the extraordinary sight she beheld, she no longer wondered that the crowd was so large or so rapt. Before her eyes the renowned Beatrice Ascani was engaged in what was, by all appearances, a vigorous bout with _a man_.

It was unheard of for men to be trained in the arts of war, even as sport, and Ascani's formidable skill with the foil was the reason hers was the most patronised fencing academy in London. Yet her opponent, while by no means her equal, looked to be holding his own against her. 

"I'm told he fences here almost daily," Torres murmured. "He is lately the former companion of Lady Seska."

Janeway glanced at her friend. "I thought she moved to the continent and married."

Torres snorted inelegantly. "When has marriage ever stopped a woman? She returned to town about a year ago and word has it that it was only a matter of weeks before she began escorting her pretty _corteso_ everywhere."

"Indeed?"

Janeway studied the gentleman before them. _Pretty_ was a word insufficient to describe such beauty. His skin was of a bronze hue that was certainly not an effect of the sun. There was surely Spanish or perhaps Portuguese blood running in his veins. The unfashionable smoothness of his cheeks was more suited to a youth, yet the visible play of firm muscle beneath his shirt proclaimed him unquestionably full-grown. She could certainly see why Lady Seska had been enamoured of him. There was a vitality in his movements and a magnetic quality to his person that were utterly captivating. For the first time in many years, Janeway felt something deep within her awaken and stir in the presence of a man.

"Who is he?" she asked.

"If anyone besides Lady Seska knows, they have yet to divulge the secret. He's referred to only as Le Chevalier."

Janeway raised a single eyebrow. "How very mysterious."

"Deliciously so."

Moments later, Ascani scored a hit. Her opponent acknowledged the point and the bout came to an end. She shook hands with the gentleman before clapping him on the shoulder with a gruff, "Well done." 

The young man's response was a smile that revealed the presence of a deep dimple in each cheek, prompting a collective sigh of appreciation from the throat of nearly every woman in attendance. Janeway found herself quite unexpectedly dazzled. A long-forgotten heat began rekindling in her blood.

Perhaps it was the ebullience of the crowd or the swift spark of lust, but some imp of devilment within her brought forth her voice. "I propose a wager," she called, hearing the level of noise around her plummet as all eyes fell upon her. "With your permission, Ascani, and if your protégé is amenable."

Ascani bowed with her customary insouciance. "What objection could I have, Captain? I am only an old woman who must pay her rent one way or another."

Chuckling at her parting wink as she stepped off the piste, Janeway turned her attention to the gentleman. After a glance at the fencing mistress, he inclined his head with an unreadable look. "For what stakes?"

"Fifty pounds if you best me."

A low rumble of shocked amusement rolled through their audience at the sum. From beside her, Torres barked a scandalised, "What?"

"And if you prove the victor?" asked the gentleman, seemingly unperturbed.

"Your forfeit will be a kiss."

The crowd erupted with hoots and cheers, whistling and stomping its approval, but Janeway's gaze didn't stray from the young man in front of her.

As the noise died she set her hands on her hips and raised her chin. "Well? What is your answer, sir?"

He swallowed once then nodded. "I accept."

§

It was agreed that the bout would take place following a suitable period to allow the gentleman to rest from his earlier exertion and Janeway to ready herself. When she made to step away and begin her preparations, Torres took her arm. 

"I say this with the greatest respect, Captain, but have you lost your mind? Talk of this will be on everybody's lips before the day is done."

"And since when have you ever cared for talk, Lieutenant?"

"For myself, I do not. It is an entirely different matter for someone of such consequence as you, however."

Janeway sighed as she removed her coat. "Your concern is appreciated but unnecessary. Let the busybodies talk of it if they've no better conversation than a trifling amusement. I believe I have earned the right to some small entertainment after half a year in dreary seclusion." She paused and then added, "No matter what my sister says."

Grinning wickedly, Torres sketched a slight bow. "Then my money is on you, Captain."

When the allotted time had elapsed, Janeway met her opponent on the same piste where he had fenced against Ascani. All around them wagers were being placed on the outcome of the bout, but her sole focus was the gentleman before her. Le Chevalier. He was aptly dubbed, she decided. There was pride in his bearing and an easy poise in his stance that spoke of good breeding. By appearance and manner alone, she could well believe he was descended from some minor aristocratic family.

The room grew quiet as they saluted one another and the bout commenced. Relieved of her coat, waistcoat, cravat, and gloves, Janeway was without restriction in the motions of attack and parry. She possessed the advantages of experience and a smaller stature, as well as having had the earlier opportunity to observe her opponent's strengths and weaknesses. Shouts from the crowd surrounding them barely penetrated her concentration. All her attention was devoted to the man before her, who was surprisingly light on his feet for someone so large and well-muscled. His form was excellent and he moved with a contained grace that would not have been out of place in a ballroom. Or a bedroom.

Fencing, Janeway had observed during her years of study, was a great deal similar to the physical act of love. An ill-matched pairing left the more skilled party dissatisfied and the less skilled frustrated. A well-matched pairing, on the other hand, blossomed into a true partnership in which the act was elevated to its highest form and the greatest satisfaction bestowed upon both parties.

A few scant minutes convinced her that Le Chevalier would prove as deft and passionate a lover as he did a fencer.

It wasn't long before the elated rush of contest overlaid by the provocative nature of the bet proved a heady mix and the malaise that had subdued Janeway's spirits lifted. For the first time in months, she felt truly alive. Still, she was perspiring noticeably by the time she landed her first hit, having neglected her exercise shamefully while convalescing. Her opponent seemed no less affected by the exertion. His shirt had dampened enough to cling to his frame, revealing his body in a way that was very nearly indecent. The sight combined with her fatigue to provide enough of a distraction for him to land a hit of his own.

They returned to their starting positions to begin the third point and this time Janeway opened with a flurry of quick thrusts designed to occupy her opponent's attention so that a sudden attack on her true target would catch him off guard. Rather than landing the hit to his shoulder as she expected, the gentleman managed a deflection of her strike so that her foil slid harmlessly along the length of his. 

A burst of surprised appreciation made her meet his eyes for a moment. It was as though she could actually hear the sharp click of connexion that lit her within, as if some link between them had been forged in a mere glance.

In her disorientation, Janeway's balance shifted a fraction and she felt an odd give in the tension of her foil just before it arced upwards. 

All that followed seemed to happen at once. The foil's unchecked momentum had not enough force to clear her opponent's body before her slight stumble forward. In horror, she felt the familiar sensation of the sword in her hand finding a home in living flesh.

Shock rendered her mute and immobile. For long moments the room around her disappeared and she was again surrounded by smoke and the screams of the injured and dying. The putrid stench of burned flesh filled her nostrils as she struggled to keep her footing on the slippery deck of her sinking ship.

"Captain!" called a familiar voice from somewhere in the smoke. Then a hand touched her arm and she turned her head to find Torres standing before her, clean and unmarred, regarding her with an expression of grave concern.

Janeway, recollecting herself, cleared her throat and shook off the disturbing memory. "Thank you, Lieutenant," she murmured before turning back to the injured man.

Ascani had already bulled her way to his side and was examining the wound with a practiced eye. "Only a scratch," she pronounced, tearing at the torn sleeve of his shirt to use as binding.

"A scratch? Good God, Ascani, I felt the blade enter his arm! How has this happened?" Janeway demanded.

"The fleuret snapped and exposed the naked blade." The older woman's voice and expression were hard. "Let me assure you, Captain, no one is more outraged than I by such inferior workmanship. There will be hell to pay for this."

Mollified, Janeway nodded. "I do not doubt it."

Ascani clapped her hands until she had the attention of the room and called for the resumption of activity in a voice that brooked no opposition. 

"Come," she said then, taking the arm of her protégé, who had been silent all the while. "Captain, Lieutenant, allow me to offer you some refreshment."

They followed her away from the bustling academy proper and into a small but comfortably furnished room. Janeway sat by the gentleman, still feeling shaken, but her shock was rapidly becoming overwhelmed by remorse.

"Sir, I offer you my most sincere apologies. Had I any—"

"Please," he interrupted gently, "do not trouble yourself. It was an unfortunate accident, but no real harm has been done."

Here in quieter environs she was able to fully appreciate the rich, mellifluous baritone of his voice. It was a voice to match the beauty of the face she now regarded, a combination of such extraordinary appeal that only a very sincere concern for his health prevented her from entertaining some wholly improper thoughts.

"Forgive me, but I must speak plainly. I have seen the consequences that even the smallest slice may wreak upon flesh. I beg you not to treat this injury lightly."

He offered her a warm smile. "I thank you for your solicitude, but I assure you that I am quite well."

"Mister—" Here she broke off with some embarrassment. "I beg your pardon. We have not been properly introduced and I do not know your name."

"Chakotay."

"Kathryn Janeway, at your service, sir."

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Captain."

They shared a brief smile at the incongruence of such adherence to formality in the wake of all that had already transpired between them.

Janeway then pressed her point. "Will you allow me to call upon you with a friend of mine, a skilled physician, so that she may assess the wound?"

The gentleman's smile fell away. "That will not be necessary, Captain."

"Then allow me to escort you home, at the very least."

"I thank you, no."

"Mr Chakotay, I really—"

"Madam, I have given my answer and I beg you not to importune me any further."

With that, he stood, seeming truly discomposed. Ascani and a servant bearing a tray of tea things entered, which rendered private conversation at an end. Janeway was left puzzling over his strange response in silence while the others conversed amongst themselves. When they parted shortly afterward, with an assurance from Ascani that she would see the gentleman safely home, Janeway was still troubled and unable to account for his resistance to her offer of assistance.

§

A silver tray bearing a folded piece of paper appeared before her eyes. "A message for you, Captain."

Janeway looked up at the server and blinked herself back to the present. "Thank you."

The young woman bowed and removed herself with the silent efficiency that was a hallmark of the Bellona Club. Unfolding the page, Janeway read the brief lines with a frown.

"Is that the gentleman's address, then?" asked her companion.

"It is, but I confess to some surprise."

"Oh?"

Janeway looked up and met the wide blue eyes of Dr Kes. "It is a lodging house in St Giles."

Understanding stole over the doctor's delicate features. "I see."

The carriage ride to St Giles was spent in subdued silence, Janeway finding herself too perturbed for conversation. As they exited the carriage, she glanced up and down the street with a sense of pity overlaid by frustration. Why would a young man of means — as a corteso must be, surely — reside in the midst of such poverty? True, this was not the worst afflicted part of the parish, yet the conditions were scarcely above squalid. 

The interior of the lodging house they entered was no less dilapidated than its exterior, though it was clear that some effort had been made to enhance the common area. They located Mr Chakotay's room at the top of a rickety flight of stairs. At Janeway's knock, the door opened to the gentleman's handsome face, which displayed great consternation for an instant before turning distinctly cold.

"Captain Janeway," he said stiffly. "How unexpected to see you here."

Stung by the manner of his greeting but determined in her errand, Janeway forged ahead. "Mr Chakotay, I pray you will forgive the liberty I have taken in locating your residence, but I simply could not allow a wound of my infliction to go untreated."

"And so you followed me? Or had me followed?"

"I did. I am heartily sorry for the intrusion but I believed it to be necessary."

He was too well-mannered to slam the door in her face, though Janeway saw the desire to do just that in his eyes. She attempted a more placating approach, gesturing to the woman standing slightly behind her.

"May I introduce my friend to you? Mr Chakotay, this is Dr Kes. She has kindly acquiesced to my appeal to set my mind at ease. If you will permit it."

"I have given you my answer already."

Kes stepped forward then and spoke. "Sir, I can see that the wound yet bleeds. Will you not reconsider? I would be most happy to tend to it."

A flush bloomed on his cheeks and he nodded graciously at Kes, but his next words were directed to Janeway. "You must know that I cannot pay," he said bitterly.

She shook her head sharply. "I have no desire to compound the injury I have done you. This imposition is solely for the sake of my own conscience, and therefore the cost is mine to bear."

Mr Chakotay softened, then, letting out a sigh. "You take too much upon yourself, Captain. It was an accident. That is all."

"I cannot agree with you, sir. It was my hand that held the sword that harmed you. Had I been in better form, this could not have happened."

He opened his mouth as if to contradict her, but the mild voice of Kes forestalled him. "While I do find such philosophical discussions quite fascinating, perhaps a private setting would be more conducive to the conversation."

She cast a meaningful glance down the corridor, whose walls were thin enough, Janeway now realised, to hear the voices of the occupants of other rooms. The gentleman's lips twitched in rueful amusement and she felt hers do the same.

"Please come in," he said with a smile, stepping back to allow them entrance.

The room was appallingly bare. Furnished only with a narrow bed and a small table at which sat two chairs, it gave the appearance of nothing so much as a monastic cell. Mr Chakotay removed a single empty plate and cup from the table and drew forth the second chair in a self-conscious manner.

"Won't you have a seat?"

There was no real privacy to be had, but Janeway turned herself a little toward the wall and pretended fascination with its out of fashion and distinctly peeling paper. The air in the room was uncomfortably chilled, even for autumn. She could only imagine how cold it would be come winter. The soft murmurs of instruction made by Kes and the occasional low sound of discomfort from the patient were almost overwhelmed by the noise of the house's other occupants. Janeway found the din becoming quite intolerable and wondered how it had escaped her notice for so long.

When the examination at last concluded, Kes pronounced her patient in otherwise excellent health, saving his injury. That, she determined, did not require stitches and should heal without complications if given proper care. With some final instructions, she returned her instruments neatly to her doctor's bag. 

Janeway stood, producing her card and offering it to the gentleman.

"Thank you for your forbearance, Mr Chakotay. If you are not otherwise engaged, I hope I may have the pleasure of your company to dine tomorrow evening."

His dark eyes met hers. In them was some undefinable expression that she longed for time enough to decipher. The same shock of awareness she had experienced when they fenced now raced through her again, even more keenly this time. Before he could protest or decline, as she was sure he meant to do, she heard herself say, "Please. There will be no one but family in attendance."

After a moment, he nodded his acceptance. "Thank you, Captain. I would be delighted."

They fixed upon a suitable time and then she and Kes took their leave.

"A very interesting young man," Kes said as the carriage drove through the dim light of late afternoon.

"Yes," Janeway replied absently, preoccupied by the heightened sense of anticipation that lingered within her.

"You feel responsible for him."

Rousing, she turned to meet her friend's clear, open gaze. "His injury is of my infliction. Should I not feel it?" she asked.

Kes only smiled in her kind way. "It was an observation, not a criticism."

Janeway sighed and pressed her fingers to the ache that had developed in her temple. "Forgive me. I am out of sorts at present."

"I understand. The day has been a taxing one."

"It has at that."

Several minutes passed before Kes spoke again. "I hope you know that you may confide in me on any subject you desire."

Janeway looked at her quizzically.

"I do not wish to force a confidence, but you need not always bear your burdens alone."

In a face deceptively childlike, Kes' blue eyes were wise beyond measure. Janeway looked into them and felt as if her very self was laid bare beneath the clarifying light of a gentle sun. She blinked away the sting of unwelcome tears and made an effort to smile at her friend. "I shall try to remember."

§

The weariness Janeway had been keeping at bay descended fully upon her once she passed through the doors of her home. Feeling unequal to company, even that of family, she sent a note to her sister before retiring to her rooms. Once there, despite her exhaustion, she found herself restive and unable to settle on some relaxing activity. In frustration, she went to bed early, expecting to spend the night in restless and fitful slumber, but instead falling straight away into a deep sleep. The morning found her refreshed and newly inspired as to her next course of action.

None of the rest of the household was about at that hour, so after breakfasting she removed to her study. Her sister's unceremonious arrival some time later, the previous evening's note clenched in her fist, was no surprise at all.

"Really, Kathryn," Phoebe admonished, eschewing greeting altogether. "Have you been so long at sea that you've forgotten how to behave in polite society?"

"Good morning to you as well, dear sister. To what you refer?"

"You know very well that I speak of your humiliating display yesterday. Indeed, it is all anyone is talking of."

"Has London society at last grown so dull that it has exhausted all other possible topics of conversation? What a tremendous, if regrettable, achievement."

Phoebe threw up her hands in frustration. "Don't be so obtuse, Kathryn! You made a spectacle of yourself, fencing with _a man_. And not just any man. Oh, no. With a _corteso_!"

She spat the word as though it were the most foul epithet imaginable and Janeway rolled her eyes. "Really, Phoebe, it was only a bit of fun. Am I allowed no amusement anymore?"

"When it calls into question the very respectability of this family, then no! Perhaps you are unaware of the extent of that man's infamy, but let me assure you he is no gentleman."

For some reason the words rankled. "I can't imagine what you mean. He was a perfect gentleman to me."

Phoebe's voice dropped to a furious whisper. "He may act the gentleman but it is _only_ an act. The man is thoroughly debauched. Nothing but a common whore."

"Oh, I rather doubt that," Janeway drawled. "It seems to me that he must be a very _un_ common whore." 

Her sister was not to be dissuaded by drollery. "And this!" She brandished the note advising her of their expected guest. "If you will not think of yourself or me, think of your nieces and nephews. Consider how such an association will reflect on them."

"It will be years before any of them are out, Phoebe. I hardly think simply being in the same house with the man for a single evening will have any disastrous effects on their prospects."

"You must always have your way, mustn't you, _Captain_? Well I am not one of your sailors and I refuse to sit at table with such a man. Nor will I allow my husband to do so."

Janeway's temper finally got the better of her. Rising from behind her desk, she said with deceptive calm, "Do you forget whose house this is?" 

Phoebe clenched her jaw but made no reply. 

"I cannot believe that you have forgotten the lessons of our most excellent mother so completely. To refuse simple courtesy to a person who has done you no harm, no matter their situation in life, would be a far greater dishonour to our name."

"Inviting him to dine in our home is a vast deal more than simple courtesy. Even Mother would not expose us to such degradation as an association with a man who is so far removed from respectability."

"Good God, Phoebe, when did you become such a parson? What iniquities do you imagine he can accomplish in the duration of one meal? He is a young man of reduced means whom I have injured. Whatever _his_ past actions, I cannot ignore my responsibility to making reparation for _mine_."

Phoebe maintained a mutinous silence. 

Having reached the limits of her patience, Janeway threw up her hands in exasperation. "Do what you will. I am not Mother and I am heartily sick of battles. My guest is to dine here this evening and I will not take kindly to his being slighted. If you are determined to do so by absenting yourself, I promise you will feel my displeasure most keenly."

With that, she excused herself and quit the room.

§

One quarter hour before Mr Chakotay was to arrive, Phoebe and her husband, Thomas, entered the drawing room.

"I am happy to see you have recovered from your indisposition of the morning," Janeway said with a smile. Her sister offered a sour look in reply but said nothing.

The evening passed well enough, certainly better than she had feared. Conversation was polite, though a little strained, and Mr Chakotay proved every bit the gentleman throughout. She could not but admire him for the excellence of his manners as well as his looks. There was no customary separation of the sexes when the meal was ended; instead, she invited their guest to her study to discuss a matter of business. Phoebe threw a dark glance in their direction as they left but was wise enough to say nothing for the moment.

When both were seated, Janeway came immediately to the point. "Mr Chakotay, may I be frank with you?"

A half smile flirted at the corners of his lips as if to say 'can I stop you?' Aloud he said, "Please do."

"It has become clear to me that your circumstances have lately suffered due to your... separation from your former employer. I should like to offer you an opportunity for new employment."

His eyes widened and she immediately understood the conclusion he had drawn.

"I do not refer to the same manner of employment in which you were previously engaged," she said quickly, noting with some curiosity that his posture relaxed at her words. "As I alluded to yesterday, I have allowed my exercise and training to lapse during my convalescence. I should like to engage you as a regular fencing partner, if you are amenable."

The gentleman appeared taken aback. "I am very flattered, Captain, but is there not another more suited to the task? By reputation, you are a great proficient. I fear a novice such as I would not offer enough challenge for a swordswoman at your level."

"You do not give yourself enough credit, sir. Recall that I have seen you bring the great Beatrice Ascani to a sweat. There are few who share that particular honour."

He smiled bashfully at the compliment. "She goes easy with me and still I have yet to score a hit against her."

Janeway waved away his humility. "Nonetheless, your talent is evident, sir, and my skills are no longer at their peak. We may be beneficial to one another in that regard. Our proficiencies will rise in concert." When no response was forthcoming, she added, "Of course you need not give your answer now if you wish some time to consider the matter."

"Oh, no, it is not that. I am only— That is, I confess to some amazement that you—" He paused a moment to collect himself. "What I mean to say is that I would be happy to accept your offer."

She clapped her hands together in satisfaction. "Excellent."

They spoke of the particulars of the arrangement, then Janeway named the sum she was prepared to offer. The young man's eyes widened. 

"Captain, that is far too generous."

"On the contrary. I assure you that this is a relatively modest fee for private tutelage. You may look into the matter yourself if you doubt me."

"No," he said quickly. "Of course I do not doubt you." The alacrity and strength of his assertion filled Janeway with a curious warmth. "I am surprised to discover it, though. Ascani's fees are much lower." He hesitated a moment. "May I ask why you do not wish to make use of the academy?"

Janeway leaned back in her chair with a wry twist of her lips. "I suppose, if I am entirely honest, it is pride. At least, that is one reason. The scars I wear often make me the object of speculation and pity when in public. Though I am not overly concerned with the opinions of others, I admit it becomes taxing to endure for any length of time."

"I understand."

His expression then reminded her in some way of Kes. There was no pity to be found there, only genuine warmth and compassion. The day before Janeway had seen how his eyes had noted her scars but never lingered upon them; nor did he look away as though guilty, as some did. This delicacy of feeling only increased his appeal in her estimation. She had not anticipated what a gift it would be to receive such careful attention until it was so unreservedly given.

When they parted some time later in the evening, they did so with mutual pleasure in the understanding that Mr Chakotay's employment would commence in two days' time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title comes from Proverbs 31:10; beatrice ascani and her fencing academy are based on domenico angelo and angelo's school of arms, which opened in london in 1763; the name of janeway's club is borrowed from the lord peter wimsey novels by dorothy l sayer. many thanks to the oxford fencing club's [abridged rules of fencing](https://oxfordfencingclub.co.uk/home/competitions/abridged-rules-of-fencing/) for showing me that i knew more about fencing than i thought i did but still not very much. to any fencers who may read this, i apologise if i've thoroughly mangled your sport.
> 
> as always, constructive criticism is very welcome, and please report any and all errors to the management. (that'd be me.)


	2. Chapter 2

That winter passed more rapidly than any other Janeway could remember. It seemed no time at all before the cold, flat greys and severe blue-whites that washed the landscape began to give way to the softer, warmer colours of a burgeoning spring. 

As it was wont to do, London society soon grew bored feeding on the same stale morsels of gossip. New scandals arose to eclipse the old with enough regularity that, by the time the first snowdrops poked their pale heads from beneath the soil, there was scarcely a flicker of interest left in a former corteso calling regularly at the residence of the much celebrated Captain Kathryn Janeway. 

They were happy, largely untroubled months for her, especially once the days began to lengthen after midwinter. On all but Sundays, her routine was fixed: mornings were devoted to business and calls, afternoons to fencing with Mr Chakotay. Very quickly, fencing came to be followed by conversation, which in turn led to walks in the garden—when the weather permitted—or the orangery—when it didn't—with occasional excursions to the library. And since those walks so often tended to be of a lengthy duration, the only polite thing for Janeway to do when they concluded was extend to Mr Chakotay an invitation to dine.

Before long formality was largely relinquished between the two of them. His invitation to address him as she would any of her other friends was a liberty she could never have agreed to with another unmarried gentleman who was not her relation, yet their entire acquaintance was so out of the common way that it felt wholly natural to dispense with at least a few of the rigours propriety demanded. Janeway offered him leave to do the same, but he seemed to enjoy continuing to address her by rank. The apparent formality did nothing to hinder their growing intimacy. Indeed, she sometimes entertained the foolish thought that from Chakotay's lips the word 'captain' sounded almost as though it were an endearment. 

They never discussed his former occupation, nor did they touch upon her experience in the war. Instead, they spoke of history and literature, of music and politics. Every day he grew in her estimation as a man of uncommon sense and rational thought. Though they did not always share the same opinions, he was intelligent and well-read, able to speak with eloquence and insight on a variety of subjects. Their debates could last for whole afternoons, even sometimes well into the evenings, and Janeway more than once found herself swayed, at least in part, to new ways of thinking.

Now and then Chakotay would also speak to her of his childhood: his French mother and Spanish father, his two sisters, the distant cousin who had brought him to London when the war between their countries stripped him of home and family. Despite the grief that still weighed upon his heart, he talked of the past with great fondness and seemed glad of the opportunity to share his cherished memories. In return, Janeway offered him tales of a youth running almost wild with her sister on her mother's estate in ___________shire. She confided her great admiration for her mother and deep affection for her father, as well as her devastation when death claimed both within the same year. They were sentiments she had rarely ever uttered to anyone, even her sister. Such uncharacteristic openness made her wonder at herself more than once. If pressed, she could not have accounted for it to another; she was unable to explain it even to herself. Only that some instinct within her had judged him worthy and responded to his presence as a flower does the sun.

In addition to the delight she took in their time spent together, his manner when in company with others was equally pleasing. Amongst her particular friends, especially Torres and Kes, with whom he was already acquainted, he was all ease and friendliness. Phoebe's Thomas, an equally charming fellow (though in Janeway's opinion not nearly so handsome as Chakotay), had also taken to him quickly. Most surprising of all was that Phoebe herself grew to esteem him, not least because he had become a great favourite with her children, all four of whom were enchanted by his merriment and the gentleness of his nature.

Indeed, Janeway could not see how anyone could fail to be pleased by him. Therein lay the increasing danger in which she found herself. At the inception of their arrangement, she had been firm in dismissing her initial attraction. It had been, she decided, nothing more than a fleeting reaction born of the titillating entertainment and perhaps a dash of the reckless spirit that dwelt within her. After a protracted absence from all society, she reasoned, it was hardly a wonder she had been so easily affected by a handsome face and figure on her first venture out.

But as the weeks turned into months and her friendship with Chakotay flourished, Janeway was unable to deny the wonderful and tender feelings blossoming in her heart. Far from being ephemeral or transient as she had hoped, they were daily strengthening into a very sincere and profound attachment to the gentleman. 

For too long she had been troubled by the fear that years of war and tragedy had extinguished any capacity she might have had for the kind of deep and abiding affection she had witnessed in the union of her parents. This proof that her fear had been unfounded was cause for great relief. Yet acknowledging the true nature of her feelings brought with it a bitter understanding that poisoned the sweet, for to act upon those feelings was impossible.

While she had had her share of lovers, Janeway was no libertine; she felt only disgust for women who seduced innocents or toyed with the affections of honourable men. And no matter how society painted him, Chakotay was in every way an honourable man. Perhaps the best she had ever known. In spite of that, the plain and painful truth remained that, for a woman of her situation in life, a former corteso was an entirely unsuitable choice to take as a husband. All of Phoebe's recriminations that had seemed so overwrought mere months before now took on the wisdom of the sages. As the eldest daughter, Janeway had a duty to maintain her family and ensure the prosperity of her estate. To sully or sacrifice their good name to satisfy the wishes of her heart would be selfish in the extreme when the lives of so many were hers to safeguard. In the eyes of the world, even to entertain such a notion was folly.

Nor did she have any idea of whether or not Chakotay would be inclined to accept her should she indeed offer for his hand. It was clear that he liked her, that he took pleasure in her company and conversation. Beyond that, Janeway could not say with certainty what, if any, feelings resided within him.

That ought to have been the end of it. She ought to have had the strength of character to overcome her longing for what could never be. But try as she might, her heart would not be constrained, and her flesh proved more unruly by far. There were nights when the recollection of Chakotay's dark eyes and lush lips, of his strong hands and fine figure so admirably displayed as they fenced, drove her to the utmost heights of yearning. On those nights, her weakened will was no impediment to her thoughts or her wandering hands. They caressed her body freely, following paths drawn by memory and desire, as hunger held her in its fervent sway.

In the aftermath, with her passion spent, she would be filled with remorse and a heavy sadness. At times she had passing thoughts of taking Chakotay for her acknowledged lover, despite the scandal, just as Lady Seska had done before her. Janeway had no doubts as to the pleasures such an arrangement would afford. The temptation, however, was always short-lived. She knew her temperament too well not to understand that those pleasures, no matter how great, would soon lose their allure in the absence of a deeper attachment. What was begun in pleasure would lead, at its end, to a far more painful and regrettable fate for her than simply maintaining the present course, no matter how difficult its navigation might be.

And so she did nothing to alter their direction. She was not unhappy, after all.

§

The day was a wet and dreary one, with a sky so loured that candles had to be lit despite all the drapes drawn wide throughout the house. From every vantage point the rain appeared a solid barrier held up between them and the rest of the city. No sound penetrated its susurration save the occasional grumble of distant thunder. It created an atmosphere of seclusion that was far too conducive to intimacy. Janeway couldn't seem to rid herself of the fanciful notion that she and Chakotay were cocooned together in some secret, hidden world. 

Of late, they had fallen into a playfully flirtatious manner when alone with one another. Even amongst others, their intercourse was marked by intervals of mischievousness, prompting Phoebe more than once to offer pointed commentary on the indecorous behaviour of naughty children. 

Janeway hardly knew herself in such exuberant spirits. Not that she was by nature ill-humoured, but her usual inclination was to more restrained displays. In Chakotay's company, however, she was discovering — or perhaps rediscovering — the joy of play for its own sake. At times she felt that she was rushing headlong towards something without the means, or the will, to stop. 

As a young girl she had delighted in running down hills, hurling herself forward in anticipation of the moment when the laws of nature altered themselves just for her, when her legs no longer propelled her but rather were what kept her from falling. She had known the dangers — her mother admonished her over them often enough — but rashly, wilfully, she chose to disregard every caution, even her own fear. It was as close as she had ever come to flying and she would not give it up.

Chakotay's presence filled her now with that same dizzying, breathless excitement. It hummed just beneath her skin, making her startlingly aware of every sensation, from the lightest shift of the cloth of her shirt to the warmth and curve of the metal she held in her hand. When a gust of wind flowed over her exposed skin, tingling gooseflesh rose in its wake and made her shiver with a strange pleasure. She felt her nipples tighten. 

Arousal tugged insistently at her senses, the undertow of nascent desire matured into craving. Her concentration was in tatters, her reflexes slower than they had been for some time. She and Chakotay kept a slowly revolving motion around one another, as if celestial bodies in orbit. They drew far closer than was necessary or even wise for two people wielding swords. There were glancing touches against wrists, against arms; shirts clung to skin grown slick with perspiration. Neither of them could contain sudden fits of laughter, though Janeway could not have said exactly what was so funny, only that the very air around them seemed charged with some incipient promise to an almost unbearable degree. 

She cast about desperately for any topic of conversation and at last recalled Chakotay's recent removal from St Giles. "How do you find your new lodgings?" she asked him on an attack.

He parried, lips twitching in what she knew to be suppressed amusement. "They are very comfortable, as I'm sure you are aware, since you selected them for me."

"I did not select them!" Janeway's indignation was only partly feigned. She parried his riposte. "I merely mentioned in passing that Lieutenant Torres said she knew of a place that might be had should you wish to enquire after it."

_Counter-riposte. Parry._

__

"Then you spoke with Lieutenant Torres, who spoke with the landlady, who just happens to be a retired officer with whom she once served. It is all entirely coincidental, I'm sure. Certainly, it was not you who prompted Torres in the first instance."

__

_Attack. Counter-attack._

__

"You make me sound quite Machiavellian."

__

_Parry._

__

Chakotay laughed openly at her frowning countenance. "If Machiavelli had worked as tirelessly to secure the comfort and happiness of his friends as he did to ensure the opposite for his enemies, then I daresay that description would be exceedingly apt."

__

_Riposte._

__

Though Janeway struggled, it was in vain. Her lips were determined to smile. "I do believe there may be a compliment located somewhere in the midst of that convoluted logic, sir."

__

_Parry._

__

"Do you know, Captain, I think you may be right," he replied, wielding his very distracting smile to quite unfair advantage. 

__

With that face and those dimples, he could seduce a saint, she thought on a private sigh. The glow of the candles around them seemed very bright just then, their points brilliant as stars that remained in her vision when she tried to blink them away. They filled the room with a golden haze which seemed to linger on his skin, as though light itself bestowed some of its own radiance upon him.

__

_Attack._

__

Her pivot was a breath too late. His forward motion caused their shoulders to jar so that they both stumbled. Janeway caught herself with the ease of long experience. It was to Chakotay's credit that he was almost able to recover in time.

__

Almost.

__

Lying in an inelegant sprawl upon the floor, he regarded her with a face that was a picture of wounded incredulity. "Corps-a-corps, Captain? I had thought better of you."

__

She could not help laughing. "Oh, Chakotay, forgive me. I don't know what's come over me today. I swear I have never been so maladroit. You are not injured, I hope." She let her foil fall from inattentive fingers and reached out to assist him in gaining his feet.

__

The clasp they shared was innocent as could be — they had shaken hands almost daily for many months now — and yet there in that instant the sensation of his palm laid against hers lanced through body her like a bolt of lightning splitting the sky. In a heartbeat all laughter vanished from the room. Janeway watched, transfixed, as Chakotay drew himself to his knees before her.

__

"On the contrary," he said, in a voice utterly changed from a mere moment ago.

__

Making no move to rise further, he simply looked up at her, flushed and breathing rapidly, his hand still joined with hers. It was in no way proper, yet she felt rooted in place, held captive by some force greater than herself.

__

"I believe that I have long been in your debt," he said at length.

__

"No," she told him softly. "You owe me nothing."

__

"Was there not a wager between us? I believe my forfeit was to be a kiss."

__

There was something in the quiet timbre of his voice that shook her composure utterly. Janeway licked her dry lips, gazing at him in helplessness and unable to fathom why he would behave in such a way. Chakotay had no reason to pretend at seduction with her, nor could she believe him to be playacting. His expression was as unguarded as she had ever seen it.

__

"Sir," she began, her voice all but unrecognisable to her ears.

__

He shook his head and tightened his fingers around hers. "I am entirely at your disposal, Captain."

__

_Oh,_ the way he said it, in _such_ a voice. He named her 'captain' as a lover would say his beloved's name in the sweet seclusion of darkness, a reverent gift for her ears alone.

__

How she wanted, how she _ached_ , to accept this benefaction, to allow herself this one heedless act in a lifetime of discipline and reason. Already he had stirred her beyond what she had ever known. Liquid heat pooled in her belly and at the juncture of her thighs. The flimsy ramparts she had so rationally constructed were all but fallen. It took only a moment for the wildness she had so long kept reined to break free at last to rule her.

__

It would be chaste, she assured herself in a final effort at restraint, even as she bent to him. A mere meeting of lips; the briefest touch. Just enough to assuage the worst of this hunger. But his lips were warm and soft as she pressed hers to them and she found herself returning twice, three times, four, sipping as a hummingbird at nectar. He sighed and her pulse quickened further, drumming. The scent of fresh sweat and a deeper, more exotic note that hung about him intoxicated her. Without knowing what she did, her mouth coaxed his to open. Her fingers wound into his thick hair as she tasted him, as she tilted his head to take more. He made a soft pleasure sound that sent a throb of pulsing heat to her sex. His hands rose up to splay against her thighs.

__

Duty, propriety — all of it was lost in the luxurious feast of their kiss. She forgot herself, forgot everything but the fierce twin yearnings of her heart and her flesh. Savage as a storm, desire raged within her. Months of ruthless denial had brought her close to desperation. Her hands dove beneath the fabric of his shirt as her tongue plunged between his lips. There was nothing in the world for her but his hot, smooth skin and his warm, wet mouth. He pulled her closer to his body so that her thighs were pressed tightly to his chest and she moaned at the paradox of his gentleness and strength.

__

So transformed by the siren song of lust had she become that when a knock shattered its enclosing spell she felt as if a part of herself shattered with it.

__

Wrenching away from Chakotay, one hand flying to her mouth, Janeway struggled to claw back some measure of composure. The knock came again and Chakotay staggered to his feet, whirling to face the windows.

__

"Enter," she rasped.

__

The door opened to reveal the impassive face of the butler. "My apologies for the interruption, Captain. Your solicitor has arrived. I have shown her to your study."

__

Her solicitor. Heavens, had so much time passed already? She'd forgotten their meeting entirely. "Thank you, Mr Tuvok. I shall be there directly."

__

Chakotay still occupied himself at the window and did not look at her. For her part, Janeway could not think of what to say to him now after taking such appalling liberties. She was near sick with shame at the way she had behaved. Muttering a brief, "Please excuse me," she all but ran from the room. 

__

In the hall she recalled herself enough to stop a footman. "Do see to refreshments for Mr Chakotay and ask him to wait for me in the east parlour." 

__

"Yes, Captain."

__

There was no time to refresh herself or see to a change of clothes. No time to calm her racing heart or cool the heat burning in her cheeks. Janeway could only hope that her dishevelled state would be attributed to nothing more than exercise, and not the betrayal of every notion of honour she possessed.

__

__


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone who's left a comment on this odd brain child of mine. i always try to reply to each one but sometimes the mental elf doesn't cooperate and i just can't. that doesn't mean i don't appreciate them, though, because i do.

Janeway lingered in her study following the departure of her solicitor. Almost since the moment she had so abruptly quitted the practice room, she had been undertaking a thorough examination of herself and her recent behaviour. Even whilst engaged in discussion, a portion of her thoughts remained devoted to deliberation. The likeness of herself reflected back to her upon the conclusion of her efforts was not one in which she could take any measure of pride. 

Here was a young man under her power and influence whose trust she had abused in the most selfish of fashions. She was guilty of the very same licentiousness that she so thoroughly condemned in other women. Consideration of his former occupation she discarded as irrelevant to her judgment. They had no arrangement of that kind between them, therefore she had no more right to such favours from him than she would any gentleman. How, she asked herself, could she profess to care for him and yet treat him in such a contemptible way?

Under the harsh light of scrutiny, she saw herself to have been so overcome by base desire that she might very well have taken Chakotay on the floor then and there if not for Tuvok's timely interruption. That understanding shook her to the very foundation of her self. Who was this woman able to so thoughtlessly disregard every precept and principle by which Kathryn Janeway had lived her life? That Chakotay had himself extended the blatant invitation in no way excused her acceptance of it. Her duty to remain steadfast in the face of temptation ought to have been paramount; hitherto, it always had been. The ease with which she'd been able to relinquish its claims such a short time ago troubled her deeply.

And yet she could not forget Chakotay's response to her kiss: eager but curiously artless, almost hesitant. It had none of the practiced artistry or simulated ardour she might have expected of a corteso. Every reaction and touch she received from him had felt as natural and spontaneous as her own had been. Indeed, merely recollecting the overwhelming fervency of their encounter made her face heat anew. The knowledge that his desire was a match for her own gave Janeway some small comfort in the midst of her self-castigation, though it did little to lessen the disgust she felt. The fact that she was innocent of forcing herself upon him was scarcely worth merit. In every other respect, she was deserving of the severest censure.

Her unseeing gaze had fallen upon the face of the longcase clock during her preoccupation. Now she saw with dismay that the hand ticking by the minutes was much farther progressed in its circuit than she'd intended. To delay any longer would only add discourteousness to her other crimes against Chakotay. With a last fortifying breath, she steeled herself for what was to come.

§

When she entered the parlour, Chakotay appeared to be studying the portrait of her great-grandmother that hung over the mantelpiece. At Janeway's approach, he turned and her stride faltered, then stopped altogether in the middle of the room. The memory of him kneeling, flushed and dishevelled by her own hands, arose in her mind's eye, flooding her with a stunning wave of visceral feeling. She found herself quite flustered at the sight of him standing now so composed before her and could not think of a single word to say.

Some emotion passed across his features too swiftly for her to read before he schooled them. "Captain," he greeted her, smiling in a somewhat subdued fashion. "I hope your business was concluded satisfactorily."

Recalled to her manners, she attempted her own smile. "Yes, thank you. Though I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long."

"Not at all."

In the silvery light that shone through the tall windows, the blue hues of the parlour seemed to ripple and shift, as the waters of a pond do when ruffled by the wind. To Janeway, it appeared as if the room itself flowed about them while they alone stood unnaturally still. In the ordinary course of things, Chakotay would already have approached her, or she him, but neither made any move to do so. Instead a strained silence descended upon their tableau. She thought it must be the first between them since the day she had visited his lodgings with Kes. How long ago that afternoon seemed these many months later. Yet even then, Janeway had not felt herself so awkward and uncomfortable in his company. To all her senses, nothing was as it should have been. Even the patter of the rain against the panes of glass gave off a discordant sound. 

"Will you sit, Mr Chakotay?" she said at last.

He tilted his head, a slight twist to his lips. "So formal, Captain Janeway."

"I believe I must be," she replied. "Under the circumstances."

"Under the circumstances," Chakotay repeated softly. His gaze flickered to the window before returning to meet hers with his customary directness. "I would prefer to remain as I am, if you have no objection."

"Of course not," she assured him, thinking with some despair how drastically everything was altered between them in such a short span of time. Even when they had met as strangers in truth, they had behaved less like strangers than this. 

Though only half a room lay between the two of them, a matter of mere feet, Janeway could not help but regard the distance as impassable. Indeed, it seemed only fitting to her that the separation which ought to have always existed between them should be made manifest in some way. Here was the measure of detachment she ought to have maintained: taunting her by its example, now when it could do no good. 

Somehow the air of the parlour had turned at once stifling and too cold, though the fire was low and the window shut against the rain. Chakotay was watching her steadily with a countenance so placid she would not have recognised his agitation were she not so familiar with his every expression. The sudden and full consciousness of all that was lost to her sent a sharp ache lancing beneath her breastbone. 

Gathering duty about her for a shield against her distress, Janeway sat upon the settee and clasped her hands together to hide their trembling. "Sir, I owe you an apology for what occurred earlier between us. I can offer no excuse. It was a grievous breach of propriety and honour on my part, and I am deeply sorry for it."

Chakotay appeared surprised momentarily, but soon recovered. "You are not the only one of us at fault, Captain."

"I cannot agree," she said. "I have permitted, perhaps even encouraged, a greater intimacy to flourish between us than I ought to have done. All culpability in this matter falls to me. I see now that our friendship has been an indulgence on my part, and a selfish one at that. If I have imposed upon you in any way or caused you even a moment of discomfort, please know that it was most unconsciously done."

A faint look of puzzlement touched his features. "You are guilty of neither."

"I am glad of that, at least. And I assure you that no word of what has occurred will ever be spoken beyond these walls."

"Thank you," he said slowly, still with an air of bemusement, as though he struggled to make out her purpose.

Janeway had supposed that he would be aware of the object of this meeting and its eventual outcome, but it struck her now that he was not. For the briefest of moments, she wavered in her intention. Nothing yet had been severed between them, whispered her heart. Why persist in this disunion when everything tender within her cried out against it?

But her rational mind rose to the fore and overruled all objection. It was impossible. It had always been so. Her actions had condemned them both.

Thus resolved, Janeway forced herself to speak.

"If I have raised any hopes or expectations, please know they are the result of thoughtlessness, not design. Nor do I wish you to feel in any way obligated to me. That does not excuse my actions, of course, but I hope will serve to somewhat ameliorate the severity of any disappointment you may feel."

Chakotay started, then blanched. "I beg your pardon?" 

"You cannot know how deeply it grieves me to say this to one who has become so..." _Dear_ , she thought hopelessly. _So very dear._ "Who has become such a friend to me. However, honour and duty compel me." A deep breath; an attempt to swallow past the dryness of her throat. "Mr Chakotay, after today we must not see one another again." 

Hearing the words aloud, so calm and firm and in her own voice, Janeway felt strangled by them, as if they formed an invisible noose about her neck.

For long moments Chakotay offered no sign of apprehension at all. Then he said, quite softly, "Am I to understand that you wish to bring our acquaintance to an end?"

"I do not _wish_ it," she said in a rush. "Not at all. But... it must be so. The insurmountable differences that exist between us—"

"Forgive me, but they did not seem in the least insurmountable to you only a short time ago."

Janeway blushed at the bald reminder of her indiscretion. "I am keenly aware of my... error. It is for that precise reason this separation is necessary."

His colour had heightened as she spoke. Now he said, "You deem what occurred between us an error?"

"It cannot be considered anything else."

"And to correct this error, you have determined that all connection between us must be dissolved?"

"To forestall further detriment, yes."

Chakotay's look was incredulous. "The degree of trespass has increased from error to detriment now?"

"Name it as you like, if you will be satirical, but there is danger here. Better to abolish the source of that danger before real harm can be done."

"And if I have a different opinion in the matter?"

"It is not possible."

"I assure you it is."

Janeway shook her head. "You mistake my meaning. This parting is for your own sake as much as mine. You must see that."

"For _my_ sake?" he asked, moving toward her for the first time since her entrance into the room. "I wonder that you would take the trouble to consider it, given what I am."

"I beg your pardon?" she said, aghast at the scorn in his voice.

He looked away from her then, and she watched as his jaw worked with some strong emotion he strove to suppress. Achieving a more composed demeanour, he said, "Forgive me. I would not have you believe me ungrateful for your generosity. I am conscious of the very great benefit bestowed upon me by your favour, something not commonly offered to one such as myself."

In real confusion, Janeway had risen and taken a single step closer to him before becoming conscious of what she did. "I do not understand you, sir. Speak plainly. To what do you refer?"

"The illusion of respectability. The opportunity to associate with my betters and play at being their equal."

"Play at? How can you say such things? You know that is not what—"

"Pray, do not presume to tell me _what I know_ , madam."

The violence of his reply astonished her. This was not the quiet, serious gentleman she had first met, nor the playful, spirited one for whom she had come to care so deeply. This Chakotay's expression was unyielding and he spoke with an angry bitterness she had not known existed within him. Even in the midst of their most impassioned discussions, he had never behaved in such a manner. Janeway felt as if she did not know this man at all, that before her stood a stranger in the guise of her friend.

His remonstrance, however, was just. Inclining her head in acknowledgement, she said, "Of course. My apologies."

A stiff bow was his only response.

The diffuse grey light through the windows at Chakotay's back seemed to sculpt him from the very substance of shadow. Janeway touched cold fingers to her brow, where a dull headache had begun to carve a place for itself. She had no option but to persevere.

"You will, of course, be provided with a severance, along with a letter of recommendation for any future employer."

"That will not be necessary," he said, prompting her sigh.

"Nevertheless, it will be done."

"I would prefer that it was not."

"I assure you, it is no more than I would provide for any other—" She checked herself before the ill-considered word could pass her lips, but its absence echoed in the silence.

"Servant?" pressed Chakotay. "That _is_ what you were about to say, is it not?"

"Any person I have engaged in employment," she said firmly.

"Any person you do not regard as your equal, owing to circumstances beyond their control."

His contention both confounded and provoked her. "It may come as a shock to you, sir, but I am not responsible for the dictates of society formed hundreds of years before my birth! Nor, might I add, have my personal feelings on such matters ever been taken into account during my lifetime."

"Madam, I have neither stated nor implied any such thing. I speak not of the way in which society evaluates our relative situations, but of your own opinion. Tell me truthfully, have you ever considered me your equal?"

Truly offended, Janeway faced him squarely with her chin held high. "How dare you ask such a question of me? Never have I regarded or treated you as anything _but_ my equal."

Chakotay studied her for a long moment, then spoke quietly. "Until now."

Her mouth opened of its own accord but no sound issued forth.

With gentle solemnity, he said, "Tell me I am wrong in this."

The truth of her own silence tore at her heart. 

She felt as though some heavy weight were pressing down upon her and constricting her lungs. Never in her life had Janeway so desired to make a liar of herself: to unsay every word that had been uttered and in their places speak promises impossible to keep.

"Please understand," she entreated, "I have the greatest respect for you. I hold you in the highest esteem. If our circumstances were not so disparate... If there were any other way..."

Chakotay's lips contorted into a bitter smile. "If I were not what all the world knows me to be, fallen so far beneath you."

Kathryn Janeway was not a woman prone to tears in any situation, but here and now she felt them rising within her like the tide. This was a pain more dreadful than any other she'd been forced to bear.

"Not to me," she whispered. "You have never been so in my eyes. But I am bound, you see, by duties and responsibilities that must be considered above all else."

Finally, he smiled a little. "I understand." All rancour was gone from his voice. In its place was a hollowness that was somehow more difficult to hear. 

"Chakotay, please believe that I—"

A sharp knocking overrode her.

She wheeled about, poised to unleash her wrath on whoever had dared disobey her orders not to be disturbed, when the door opened to reveal a singularly discomposed Tuvok. 

With neither apology nor bow, he said, "Captain, your presence is most urgently required."

All anger vanished in the face of such symptoms of alarm from her usually imperturbable butler. "Whatever is the matter, Tuvok?"

A brief hesitation followed before he said, "Soldiers wait upon you, Captain. They claim to be in possession of a warrant for the arrest of Mr Chakotay."

§

"What is the meaning of this?" Janeway demanded as she gained the entrance hall.

The ranking officer, a major, came to attention. "My apologies for the intrusion, Captain Janeway. I understand that a Mr Chakotay calls on you at present. We are under orders to apprehend him."

"By whose authority and on what charges?"

"My orders come directly from General Nechayev. The charge is high treason."

Janeway felt the solidity beneath her feet fall away. There was no more grievous crime than treason in a time of war.

"Show me," she ordered.

Three attempts were required for her to comprehend the words on the page before her. It was not possible, her reason insisted forcefully. It simply could not be. Some error of reporting had been made in a dispatch; some malicious party had denounced Chakotay on behalf of their own interest. There were any number of circumstances that would explain such a spurious accusation. What was written on the document in her hand did not signify. 

Returning it to the major, Janeway said, "Who is his accuser? What evidence has been provided to substantiate such an allegation?"

"I am not privy to that information, Captain."

"Mr Chakotay is a guest in my home, Major. If you wish to question him, you may do so here, but I refuse to permit his removal until I am acquainted with a great deal more of the particulars of the matter."

The desperate bluff might have fooled a less experienced officer, but almost before she finished speaking, Janeway saw that the major knew what she was about.

"With respect, Captain," she said, her countenance displaying no small amount of pity, "you have no authority to interfere with or countermand General Nechayev's orders. You yourself have read them and are therefore aware that we are to take the gentleman into custody at this time. If you would be so kind as to send for him, we will be on our way. I have no wish to expose your household to any further disturbance."

The courtesy with which the implication was delivered did nothing to lessen its very real threat. Janeway was well aware that the soldiers before her held ample authority to arrest every individual in residence—family and servants alike—should she hinder their attempts to carry out their duty. Frozen as she had never been in battle, her thoughts whirled helplessly, unable to fix upon any action to remedy the untenable circumstances. She was as certain of Chakotay's innocence as she was of her own name and yet powerless within that conviction. If only there were some means by which he could be spirited away before the soldiers were alerted...

"That will not be necessary, Major," came a voice at her back. "I will go with you."

Janeway spun to stare at Chakotay — who quite obviously had _not_ obeyed her instruction to remain in the parlour, and had thereby heard all that had been said — approaching with every appearance of composure. 

He stopped before her and offered her a melancholy smile. "It would seem that your intent to end our acquaintance was quite timely, Captain."

A pained, humourless sound that might once have been a laugh escaped her.

Chakotay's smile warmed a fraction. "It was wrong of me to speak so harshly to you just now. I hope you can forgive me."

"Of course. I— Yes." 

"You are very kind."

Janeway's arms ached to embrace him, to hold him close just once before all opportunity was extinguished. She was dimly conscious of the soldiers waiting nearby and of Tuvok's presence, but every thought and every sense was devoted wholly to the gentleman standing before her. His mien had grown solemn, but softer in a way she could identify but not define. His dark eyes drew her into their depths as he spoke again.

"These last months... I cannot tell you what they have meant to me. I will treasure their memory as long as I live."

"As will I," she said softly.

"It has been my very great honour to know you, Captain Kathryn Janeway. I wish you all the happiness in the world." 

So saying, he bowed, then turned and presented himself to the waiting soldiers.

"No," she whispered to the breadth of his back, his unbowed shoulders, his dark head held high. How could _this_ be the end?

In horror, she watched as shackles were brought forth and placed about his ankles and wrists.

"This _cannot_ be necessary," came her cry of disbelief. "He goes with you of his own will! There is no danger."

The major shook her head. "My orders are explicit, Captain. The prisoner is to be restrained." 

_Prisoner._

The word entered Janeway's ear with a cutting distinctness. She had seen the conditions in prisons, the treatment by gaolers. Chakotay would be little more than an animal chained and confined, mistreated and abused. His only mercy would come from the hangman's noose. Fury erupted within her breast at the monstrous thought, a purifying blaze that melted the ice which held her and renewed both her strength and her purpose.

"Do not fear, Chakotay," she called in a strong voice, as the soldiers led him away. "I will not allow this injustice to persist. You have my word."

But he only looked straight ahead, as if he did not hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cannot express how excruciating the process of writing this chapter turned out to be. it felt like i was carving stone. with a toothbrush. only the stone was my brain and so was the toothbrush. what? idek but it was brutal. be gentle, yeah?
> 
> p.s. please don't push me for updates. i've got enough guilt to deal with as it is. i'm doing my best and that's all i can do.


	4. Chapter 4

Only one staircase in the White Tower led to its basement. Descending from the turret to the stone floor, Janeway followed her assigned escort through the mouth of what had once been the keep's undercroft. Light seemed to be swallowed up between one step and the next, as though they crossed a threshold into Hades itself. The surrounding darkness was relieved only by small slits in the thick walls and two burning torches affixed either side of the entrance. The young corporal retrieved one for herself and passed the other to Janeway before proceeding along the northern side of the castle. As they entered the portion of the Tower that rested partially below ground, the darkness grew even thicker. Janeway recalled that the original timber vaults had been replaced with brick less than a century ago, but to her eyes all appeared as though it could very well have been standing since Wilhelmine the Conquerer first ordered the keep's construction almost eight hundred years before.

History and architecture were the subjects to which Janeway struggled to limit her thoughts as she drew nearer to her destination. For two days she had slept little and eaten less, driven by the twin imperatives of discovering Chakotay's whereabouts and acquiring the requisite authorisations in order to gain access to him. She had set aside shock, fear, and any gentler sensibility in favour of strategy and decisive action. Now, as she and her guide approached a thickly barred door, those feelings she had refused expression surged forth once more without impediment. She found herself awash in a tumult of tangled emotion from which neither tactics, nor charts, nor plans could rescue her.

The corporal lifted a ring of keys from her belt, selected one, and inserted it into the heavy lock. After raising and securing the bar, she opened the door and stepped back. Beyond her lay a darkness so deep it seemed solid, as though it were not merely the absence of illumination but a substance all its own.

Janeway set her jaw and entered.

Smell was her first sense to be roused. The air of the chamber was close and rank with the mingled odours of bodily effluvia. Years spent in crowded quarters at sea returned to her, when scents like this had been as familiar as the sight of whitewashed walls and the feel of spray stinging her cheeks. She thought she heard a sound, perhaps a sudden gasp, but it was drowned out by the creak of the heavy door closing and then the clanking finality of the bar being set into place. After such clamour, the ensuing silence was decidedly unnerving.

"Hello?" she called softly. Her voice helped to give shape to the surroundings in her mind. There was no echo, so the room was not large. A storage space, perhaps, lately cleared for this new purpose.

"I believe you will find a hold for your torch on the wall to your right" was her reply.

"Chakotay." His name began as a whisper and finished on a sound like a sob. Embarrassed, Janeway looked as directed and was able to discern the glint of metal anchored to the wall. She hung her torch, then turned in the spread of its meagre light. The chamber was indeed small. Windowless, bare of any comforts, its only occupants were a bucket stood against the opposite wall and the man who sat on the stone floor to her left.

"Forgive me for not receiving you properly, Captain Janeway," he said in a tone more suited to a drawing room than a prison. Thick ropes of iron wound from his wrists to embed themselves in the wall behind him. Beneath the torch's flickering they seemed to writhe like great serpents. 

Even imprisoned within this cell his gaolers had shackled him as if he were a ravening beast.

"Think nothing of it," she murmured in rote response, outrage temporarily robbing her of the capacity for real attention. 

"To what do I owe the honour of this visit?"

The polite enquiry, so at odds with their environs, worked on Janeway as a dash of cold water to the face. She stared at Chakotay's placid countenance in confusion. "I am come to assist in securing your release, of course."

"That is very kind, but there is no need for you to trouble yourself."

She could not conceal her astonishment. "Chakotay, do be serious."

As if he were not chained to a wall and locked within a guarded chamber on the lowest level of a castle keep, he said, "I am perfectly serious, I assure you."

Utterly bewildered by his manner, feeling in it the strangeness of a dream, Janeway looked about her for some tether to reality and again spied the bucket. "Have you been provided with water?" she asked. "Food?"

"Water is in plentiful supply. As to food, while it is to be had, it is nothing to your Mr Neelix's." The last was said with a slight smile, as though he were delivering a bon mot. Such equanimity disconcerted her further. 

"Have you suffered any mistreatment?"

"Not at all. My gaolers are exceedingly polite, in fact. I recommend them highly."

Janeway pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers in baffled vexation. "I do not know how you can jest in such circumstances."

"Do you not?" Chakotay's tone cooled a degree or two. "I have seen how it is in places such as the Marshalsea, where one must pay for the pleasure of being imprisoned as well as everything else. In comparison, my present situation is nigh on luxurious."

With some chagrin, she admitted to herself the truth of his words. While his circumstances were deplorable, far worse would be found within the confines of some general prison. That knowledge was of no use in tempering her indignation and distress. She began to pace the short width of the chamber in agitation.

"Have you been offered counsel of any kind?"

"No."

"Well, what has been done to forward your situation? Has information on the charges been provided to you? Have you been apprised of the identity of your accuser? You can hardly be expected to defend yourself against unknown accusations by unknown parties."

In a measured voice, Chakotay replied, "Captain Janeway, I fail to see how any of this is your concern."

"What?" she said inelegantly, coming to an abrupt halt.

"I thank you for your offer of assistance but, as I have said, it is unnecessary. There is nothing more to be discussed."

"I do not understand you!" she cried. "Why do you persist in refusing my every effort on your behalf?"

"Why you presume to interfere in the affairs of one so wholly unconnected to you?"

He displayed no signs of anger nor of distress. His voice continued mild. Yet Janeway felt the words he spoke as a blow. 

"You are not unconnected to me," she said quietly.

"I think you must agree that in every meaningful way, I am. The untimely intrusion of this singular matter merely prevented the coda from playing out."

His calm reasoning only exacerbated the sense of injustice she felt at his disavowal of any tie between them. She knew it to be illogical and yet she was angry that he appeared so unmoved. 

"Be that as it may, it does not follow that I wish to see you hang! How am I to sit by and watch such a thing occur without doing everything in my power to prevent it?"

"I am not one of your crew, Captain. I do not require you to sacrifice yourself in order to save me."

Janeway recoiled, taking two steps away from him before knowing what she did. They had never discussed the events at Trafalgar or the circumstances of her return, but the newspaper reports had been extensive and Chakotay had no doubt surmised some of what she endured during that period. Still, that he would use it against her in such a way felt painfully like betrayal.

"I do not speak of sacrifice," she said at length. "Only aid. I gave you my word to correct this injustice. If you know nothing else of me, you must know that I honour my promises."

He looked at her steadily. "I know those words were spoken at a moment of heightened feeling. For that reason, they have created no expectations within me. It would be unjust to hold you to them now."

Her voice rose in desperation. "But your very _life_ is endangered, Chakotay!"

"Yes, Captain. _My_ life. Which is no longer any of your concern."

"If you do not refute this accusation, you will most surely be hanged. Likely worse."

"You assume there is aught to refute," he said with perfect calm.

"You did not do this, Chakotay. I know it."

"Do you? Is the great Kathryn Janeway so infallible then?"

"Don't be absurd," she scoffed. "I know _you_. I know your character."

"What do you know of me but the information I myself have provided? How can you judge truth from lie? Perhaps it was all deception. Perhaps we met by design and I sought to ingratiate myself with you for just such a purpose."

In utter disbelief, she stared at him. "Why are you saying these things? Why seek to sink my high opinion of you? I tell you it will not succeed. If you truly desire to convince me of your villainy, it shall require far more than mere assertion."

The unexpected scrape of chains against the stone floor could have been a chorus telling its own ugly truth. Janeway felt the sound vibrate unpleasantly against her teeth and down the length of her spine, as though it sang within her very bones. When the noise had faded from her hearing, Chakotay spoke again.

"Captain, at our last meeting you declared your wish that I feel no sense of obligation to you. Now I say the same. I absolve you of any bonds of honour you may believe exist between us."

There was no sense here. Janeway could make out neither the cause nor the purpose of this change in him. She felt adrift in uncharted waters, with thick fog depriving her of the sight of land and the direction provided by sun and stars. Unknown dangers lurked beneath the waves, ready to tear her ship apart. 

"If," she said slowly, "as you suggest, you sought a connection between us by design, why give up the advantage now? There must be a reason and yet I can find no benefit that falls to you by doing so."

"What do my reasons matter?" Chakotay sighed and leaned his head back in a manner that expressed great weariness. "They are mine, whether you comprehend them or not."

"What of your accuser's reasons?"

His flinch was obvious even in the darkness. "I cannot speak to those."

"But you must have some idea, at least."

In his silence, she perceived affirmation. The source of his misfortune had to be someone known to him, then. Certainly someone to whom he was known. It was the only logical explanation. Perhaps it was a person he wished or was being forced to protect. She considered what she knew of his acquaintance, or rather his former acquaintance, in London. The names were few and most had broken with him completely not long after he had lost favour with his benefactress.

His benefactress.

_Of course,_ Janeway thought, as the truth rendered itself clearly in her mind. _How have I failed so long to see it?_

"It is Lady Seska who has levelled these accusations against you, is it not?"

Lady Seska, daughter of the Duchess of Cardassia, whose life prior to her presentation at court some five years ago was shrouded in mystery. Lady Seska, who had returned to London after some time abroad and almost at once formed an intimacy with a young man who had little in the way of protection. A young man whose life she now discarded as thoughtlessly as a ruined shoe. 

Chakotay's eyes widened at her naming. He looked away, but not in time to disguise the flash of fear that twisted his expression.

"What grudge does she bear you," Janeway asked gently, "to deliver you to such a heinous fate?" When he did not answer, she pressed, "Has she some hold over you yet? Is that why you will not defend yourself?" 

His jaw clenched but he did not speak.

"Chakotay, whatever power she wields, it cannot stand against the truth," she said with urgency. Still he maintained a stubborn silence. "Very well. I am not without resources. If you will not speak the truth, I shall discover it myself."

"No," he said quickly. "You must not attempt it."

"Why not?"

The question seemed to cause him consternation. "You have no duty to make reparation for another woman's crimes."

"Whatever her crimes, there can be no justice if you do not speak out against her."

"There will be no justice whatever I do!" he cried.

"There will be, Chakotay! If you believe in nothing else, believe in that. I will not let this wrong go unanswered."

"That is exactly what you _must_ do."

"But why?" she demanded, baffled and furious in equal measure. "Why do you insist on these denials?"

"Why do you insist upon this inquisition? Why do you not _listen_?"

"I am trying to help you!"

"And I tell you I do not want your help!" 

The anguish in his voice shocked her into a state of paralysis. For several moments Chakotay's harsh breathing was the only indication of life in the room. 

At last, in a quiet and subdued tone, he said, "For the sake of whatever respect you hold for me, I ask you, most sincerely, to desist. Let me be, Captain. For both our sakes."

"No," Janeway said in sharp dismissal. "You cannot mean that."

His expression of solemn resolve did not waver. 

"No," she repeated, even as she felt the horrible sinking of her certitude. "Do not ask this of me, Chakotay." Her hands clenched into fists at her sides as her heart twisted in helpless agony. It was impossible that he should mean it. Panic rose within her at the gentle implacability she read on his face. Iron bands wrapped about her chest and began to tighten. "Please."

"Please," he echoed softly. 

In that single word she heard all she'd been determined to gainsay. He was most dreadfully in earnest. 

Unable to make any response at all, unable even to think, Janeway bowed gracelessly and turned, fumbling for the door. She was wild to escape, nearly overcome by the violence and magnitude of her emotions. Grief, anger, fear, shame: they roared within her like a cannonade. Had a mortal body the strength to withstand such an onslaught? 

Her hand trembled as she raised it and knocked to signal the waiting corporal. In those last moments before the door opened to release her back into the light, she whispered a choked farewell to the darkness. 

"May God bless you and keep you safe."

§

A liveried servant escorted her to the library. For as long as she could remember, the room had appeared to be in a state of constant disarray. It was a comfort to her this morning to find it yet unchanged.

"Kathryn! What a delightful surprise," said her host, descending from the mezzanine to greet her. 

"Admiral Paris, forgive me for calling so unexpectedly."

The admiral waved the apology away. "Do sit down, my dear. Why, you look quite ill. Perhaps you should take some wine."

"Thank you, but I am well, only a little tired."

With a sceptical noise, the admiral rang for refreshments. "I do not believe you, but we shall let it lie for now." Taking the chair opposite, she said, "What is it that brings you to my door today? For I can see it is nothing so commonplace as the desire to call on an old friend."

"Regretfully, it is not, Admiral."

"Haven't I asked you to call me Eugenia away from duty? Such formality in one's own home is really quite unbearable."

Janeway returned her mentor's smile wanly. "It proves a difficult habit to break, I'm afraid."

"Try harder."

The response, delivered so much like the orders of her youth, provoked a genuine laugh. "Aye, Ma'am."

Admiral Paris rolled her eyes just as a maidservant arrived with the tea and began to set it out. "I see you have anticipated me, Maria." The young woman bobbed her head with a smile that the admiral returned good-naturedly. "Thank you, dear." Turning again to Janeway, she said, "You prefer coffee, but as you know I cannot abide the dreadful stuff. Never have it in the house. Looks like sealing tar and doesn't taste much better. So you shall have to make do without this morning."

Before Janeway could offer either demurral or reassurance she found herself plied with a full cup and a plate overburdened by several varieties of cake. 

"Mind you eat it all. You are far too thin and pale," admonished the admiral. She dismissed Maria and took a sip of tea, then directed her penetrating gaze to Janeway. "Now, tell me what troubles you so. Oh, don't look at me like that, girl. Do you forget that I have known you since you were in leading strings? You may fool the others with that stoic demeanour, but I am too well-versed in those tricks. Out with it."

Sighing, Janeway set down her cup and allowed her friend's brusque concern to ease a little of her distress. Despite spending most of the night mulling over this very meeting, she found herself still unsure how to proceed. Admiral Paris had always favoured frankness over diplomacy, yet the subject was not one easily broached even in privacy. "I have come to beg your assistance in a matter of some delicacy."

"You speak of this business with young Mr Chakotay, I assume?" 

"Yes."

"It is most unfortunate, to be sure. He seemed a charming fellow on the single occasion that we met, and I know my Tom has grown very fond of him. But I do not see what assistance I can offer."

"I seek to establish the truth of his innocence."

Admiral Paris paused the motion of her cup partway to her mouth. Then, with deliberation, she lowered it and set it aside, along with her plate. Finally, she clasped her hands together and regarded Janeway for a long moment. "Your loyalty to your friend does you credit. I know he is a great favourite of yours and that the tender heart you hide so well must suffer on his behalf. Even so, high treason is no trifling matter. His crime poses the gravest threat imaginable to the security of Queen and country."

"The crime has not yet been proven. It stands as accusation only."

"Kathryn, you must know that the Crown does not act lightly with regards to such allegations. His arrest is tantamount to proof itself."

"But it is _not_ proof." At the admiral's raised eyebrows, Janeway struggled to keep her impatience in check. "Do you know the specifics of the case? Have you seen what evidence exists to support the charge?"

"I know none of the details, but I trust Nechayev's judgment. If she is sure of its merit, that is enough for me." 

Setting aside her own plate and cup, Janeway took a slow breath. She had anticipated the conversation would be a trying one, but had not thought to be quite so thoroughly, if kindly, dismissed at the first attempt. "Admiral— Eugenia," she amended, "I speak to you as an officer of Her Majesty's Navy, one who has devoted her life to the defence of the empire and its people. In this capacity I say to you now it is my firm belief that Mr Chakotay has been accused falsely. I am as certain of it as I am of being my mother's daughter."

The admiral considered her thoughtfully for a time. "These are strong words. On what do you base this certainty?"

"On my knowledge of his character."

"Kathryn, you must not allow your judgment to be clouded by sentiment."

"Indeed, it is not." Unable to remain still, Janeway rose and moved to stand at the nearby window. It was open to the warm spring breeze that brought with it the heady perfume of lavender. She felt quite dazed in the moment, after another night of little sleep, while the sun shone down on the lawn and the bees hummed. The very ordinariness of the day seemed out of place, or perhaps it was she who was out of place within it. 

The sound of girlish laughter rang from beyond the high wall and recalled her to her task. Blinking away the weight of exhaustion, she returned her attention to the admiral. "Of course I am distressed by what has befallen my friend, but that is not my sole consideration. The quality of his character is what led me to reflect on who might benefit from such charges being laid against him. It's true that I have nothing tangible to offer by way of proof, but if I am right in my suspicions there is a vast deal more to this situation than there presently appears. Truly, ma'am, it is reason, not sentiment, that has brought me to this conclusion."

Admiral Paris pursed her lips and tapped one finger against her cheek. "You suspect malicious interference?"

"To my mind, the question is not whether high treason has been committed, for I am in no doubt that it has. The question to be answered is by whom."

"If not Mr Chakotay."

Janeway nodded.

"Very well. Let us say you are correct. Why go to the trouble of creating such a convoluted scheme in the first place?"

"That I do not know. Perhaps it is meant as simple misdirection to provide the culprit with time to make their escape. Perhaps it presages further perniciousness. I believe the purpose will only be revealed once the identity of the guilty party is discovered."

"The cunning of such a person must be extraordinary. Discovery will not be easy."

"Possibly." Janeway's stomach tightened with familiar nerves. Now came the decisive strike to win or lose the battle. "Though it may perhaps be easier than you imagine."

"Oh?" The admiral's gaze was shrewd. "You have identified a likely suspect?"

"Lady Seska Woden."

For a moment Eugenia Paris was so still as to be mistaken for a marble carving. Then she expelled a deep breath and rose from her chair, falling at once into the habitual stance of a sailor: legs braced wide and hands at her hips. Colour flared in her cheeks, rendering her once more herself. "This is troubling. Deeply troubling."

Janeway regarded her curiously. "Yet you do not seem overly surprised by the suggestion."

"I am sorry to say I am not. For some time now there have been whispers about that woman in certain circles. You know I do not hold with idle gossip, but the information arises from widely different, and in some cases highly respected, quarters. If even half of what I have heard contains the smallest kernel of truth we are dealing with a very clever, very powerful, and very dangerous woman." 

The admiral strode to the desk set neatly against the opposite wall and began searching amongst the papers scattered there. "Ah, here it is." Still standing, she bent to write with a rapid hand. "I will send instructions to my aide to begin the initial preparations, but before any real action is taken I must speak with Nechayev and Fleet Admiral Crusher. If this is to be done, it must be done quietly and, moreover, successfully, for there will be but one chance to capture the viper. Should we fail, she will slither away."

So swiftly had the venture been taken up that Janeway felt herself grow quite light-headed. "Then... you are decided? You will assist me? That is, Mr Chakotay?"

Without looking from her pen, Admiral Paris replied, "Your instincts have served both you and Her Majesty well, Kathryn. I am inclined to trust them. But—" she signed with a flourish, then blotted the paper "—before you thank me, know that if my investigation should determine your Mr Chakotay bears some culpability in any respect, no leniency will be granted him on your account."

"I would not expect it," Janeway said sincerely. "And I do thank you. You cannot know how much."

The admiral gave her an odd look then, as if she had spoken strangely, but said only, "Take heart, my dear. Magna est veritas et prævalet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "magna est veritas et prævalet" (great is truth and it prevails) comes from the latin vulgate bible, first book of esdras. it's commonly misquoted as "magna est veritas et prævalebit" (great is the truth and it will/shall prevail) and misattributed to all manner of people.
> 
> in its original form (back when i was trying desperately to wrap this up before the UC deadline), this chapter (plus some more that'll be in the next) was a single paragraph of less than 100 words. this whole thing was _supposed_ to be a frothy romp but, as has become woefully obvious, it's all gone drastically awry. to prevent myself from writing the usual treatises of which my author's notes tend to be comprised (in this case on the history of the tower of london, english prison life prior to the reform acts beginning in 1823, and the etymology of the name 'owen') (because probably no one else much cares about this stuff?) i've decided to just say: if there's anything in this fic you'd like to know more about, please ask me!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selected correspondence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter makes use of the user styles feature, with CSS courtesy of [La_Temperanza](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11549178) and a texture by [Knald](https://www.deviantart.com/knald), lightly edited by me. if you've selected Hide Creator's Style you won't see the fancy stuff; alternatively, if you don't want to see the fancy stuff, you can select that option. for calculation purposes, the travel/post time between my fictional county and london is six days; between my fictional county and brighton it's ten days. sorry for making you do math.

* * *

15th June  
___________shire

Dear Phoebe,

This is but a note to advise you of my safe arrival. The roads were good and the weather held fine until this morning when the heavens saw fit to send us a deluge. Thus did my somewhat bedraggled and dripping form pass through the doors of Dryas Park, much as it often did when you and I were girls. I almost expected Papa to round the corner and scold me as he used to. Instead, Dorcot was there to offer me strong tea in front of a good fire, and here I sit, only a little worse for my drenching.

I hope you, Thomas, and the children are taking every opportunity to enjoy yourselves at Brighton. Tell my nieces and nephews that I shall expect to hear every detail of their adventures on your return, so they must take care to have some. 

Your affectionate sister,  
Kathryn  


* * *

23rd June  
London

K.,

I promised to write with what news I could and so I do. You must forgive in advance what you already know: that I cannot satisfy you with every particular. The strict requirements for secrecy surrounding such matters are beyond my powers of influence, and are, as I'm sure you agree, of the utmost necessity.

Thanks to the information provided by our friend — of which he possessed more than even he realised — the investigation has proceeded far more quickly than could otherwise have been expected. The extent and complexity of the treachery that has been uncovered is unprecedented, I think. In the interests of gathering further intelligence, the target and her operatives have not yet been taken into custody. What is known of their plans thus far indicates plots against both government and Her Majesty in order to cripple Britain's influence in the war. Were they to reach fulfilment, we should soon all be kneeling to the French upstart and calling her Empress. 

While the danger still persists, our friend will remain securely guarded in a location known only at the highest levels. There is not yet any indication that the treacherous viper (though I begin to be of the opinion that naming her so is a great disservice to vipers) has any awareness of our investigation or our friend's removal from the Tower, but there can be little doubt that should she so much as suspect his involvement in an attempt to move against her, her retaliation would be both swift and merciless. I regret that I cannot disclose his whereabouts to you, but I'm sure you will agree that his safety is of paramount importance. Be assured that he is well and suffering no ill effects from his confinement. Indeed he seems to find humour in his sudden elevation from criminal to one of the most important personages in the land. 

I must confess that having now spent a great deal of time in conversation with the gentleman, I begin to understand more fully the conviction that led you to so vehemently champion him. Beyond his genial charm there is real intelligence and a wisdom that belies his years. He is handsome enough for anyone, to be sure, but I also detect a humility within him quite out of the common way. He certainly has far more sense than most young men his age and a great deal of kindness to accompany it. In short, my dear, I must compliment you on your choice. 

That is all I am at liberty to say at present. Should further of interest arise, be assured I will write again forthwith.

Regards &c.,  
E.P.  


* * *

* * *

26th June  
Brighton

Dear Kathryn,

I was happy to receive your letter of the 15th, despite its brevity. (Not that I expected anything else. You've always been a miserly correspondent, Katie.) I trust you haven't suffered any lingering effects of your dousing, for, as Papa liked to say, God has surely made you part fish. 

The weather here has been excellent and we are all enjoying the change in environs immensely, the children especially. Little Harry is enchanted by the sea and seems content to do nothing more than watch the waves for hours, patting the wet sand, and paddling now and then. Thomas and I witness this wonder day after day with continued amazement. Never have I seen our youngest so peaceful unless he is asleep, and often not even then. Truly, had I but known the power it would hold over him, I should have removed us all to the seaside as soon as he began to crawl. Yesterday I said as much to Miss Celes and she gave me such a look that I burst out laughing. Harry toddled over just then with mild curiosity. When I told him I laughed because I was happy that he loved the sea so much, his face took on a quite solemn expression and he said, "I love you better." Then he laid his head against my leg for a moment or two before wandering off again.

Oh, Kathryn, I do not know how I held back my tears for I was so overcome. I desperately wanted to reach out and hold him in my arms, but you know he does not like to be cuddled. In the end I had to go away to a different room so that no one would see me weeping. Of course Thomas found me there. I could not speak for sobbing, but he put his arms about me and let me cry myself out. When I at last told him of Harry's words and how he laid his little head down in that affectionate way, I saw tears come into his own eyes. Then we held each other and cried a little and laughed a little together. For perhaps one half hour I felt I knew what it was to be perfectly happy. 

You must be wondering at such an excess of emotion over such a slight instance. I confess that I have not been entirely truthful with you in the past. Or, rather, I have concealed from you much of the struggle Thomas and I have faced these last three years; not only from you but from everyone. It is a matter not easy to speak, or write, of and so I hope you will forgive the manner in which what I have to say is expressed. If I stop to order my thoughts I may lose the courage yesterday has given me. You see, Harry is not like his brother and sisters. As a baby, he was so very trying — hardly sleeping, crying incessantly, almost never content. In the first year of his life we employed three different nurses, all of whom had years of experience and excellent references, and all of whom left us because he was so difficult to manage. It was nothing short of a miracle when we found Miss Celes, yet even with her in our employ, the years have not been easy ones.

The absolute truth is this: at times it has felt impossible that we should go on. Harry is alternately demanding and entirely withdrawn. So few things make him happy and when he is unhappy he can become violent, like a little animal. There have been days and nights when he would not stop screaming or trying to throw his body about no matter what we did. Sometimes he would hurt his brother and sisters for no reason we could comprehend. They began to be frightened of him, even Hanna who is so much bigger than he is. That is how fierce he becomes.

I believe with all my heart that he does not intend to do these things. These fits that come over him, they are not malicious. I do not care what anybody says; he is only a little boy. No one who saw how he struggles and suffers with whatever it is that torments him could feel anything but pity. And I see such weariness in him at times that my heart breaks. But I, too, am frightened. In dread, I have looked ahead to a time when he is too big and strong for us to manage. How are we to protect him from doing real injury to himself or the other children? Or to us? Thomas and I have despaired of what else can be done when we have already attempted all we can think of. And we must also consider his brother and sisters, what is best for them. I am fearful of neglecting them, for Harry requires such a lot of time and attention. 

And there is more, Kathryn. There is more that I am almost too ashamed to write, because the mere recollection of what I am about to tell you sickens me. Yet I must do so if you are to understand the whole of it. Very well. There came a time when my spirits had sunk so dreadfully low that I truly began to fear Harry was driving me mad. You know I am not of a nervous disposition, but I found myself growing fretful and constantly uneasy. Sleep was difficult and eating anything only made me feel ill. I grew angry at the smallest things, snapping at the servants, at the children, for reasons I could not recall a few minutes after. It was a very, very dark time, and in a moment of great misery, desperate for any means of relief, I entertained the thought of sending Harry away to an asylum. 

There. There it is, laid out upon the page in all its ugly truth. Now you know the worst. May God forgive me for it, for I cannot forgive myself. 

It is my hope that you can now better understand why the events of yesterday so overwhelmed me. The transformation in Harry since we have come to Brighton is like magic or a miracle. As long as he can see or hear the sea, he is calm, even happy. He does not bite or strike us; and though he does on occasion still shout or throw whatever comes to hand, such episodes are mere shadows of what they used to be. I think he has spoken more in these last two months than in all the months since he said his first word. And now this sudden expression of affection. It is as if something within him that had been locked away has been freed. Very slowly, my Harry is emerging and we are meeting him at last. 

I think I understand it all a little better now, though I do not quite know how to put it into words. Perhaps you may imagine it thus: all his life Harry has been lost in a great forest. I thought it fell upon me to find him and rescue him from that place. Now I believe he did not need my rescue, for somehow he is part of the forest and it is part of him. He only needed me to be patient and light a path for him to follow to us on his own. Finally, after all this time, I think we have arrived there at the edge of that forest together, both having done what was needful to find each other.

Oh, Katie, I do not know if there is any sense in this at all. Perhaps it is only fanciful nonsense brought on by giddiness and a mother's fond foolishness. But I see my little boy now and I know him. I know we recognise each other in a fashion that I have not shared with my other children. Some nights when I check on them all before retiring, I find him awake and listening to the sound of the waves through the open window. We do not speak, but he will look at me in that funny sideways manner of his and then wriggle beneath the covers. (I confess it took me quite a long time to understand that this is his way of expressing his pleasure. In fact it was something Colleen said one day in the garden that made me realise. Harry was squirming on the blanket, looking up at the leaves swaying gently overhead, and she told me he looked just like a happy puppy wriggling in the grass.) 

After I have tucked James back into bed (for he always manages to twist himself until he is hanging half off of it, still sound asleep somehow), I go over to Harry and touch the tip of my finger very lightly to the tip of his nose. Even though he often objects to any touch, for some reason this makes him laugh. His laugh is a funny little noise, quite like a piglet grunting, and it is the sweetest sound I have ever heard. To witness my child's hard-won contentment and to share such moments with him... My heart grows so full I feel it must burst open from sheer joy.

I have no expectation that this halcyon time will last forever. Thomas and I have talked much of our plans for the future, but we still must leave Brighton at the end of summer, at least for a time. Knowing that such liberation is possible, though, and that there is a real chance for Harry's life to be more peace than struggle — it gives us hope. We are determined to expand our thinking on the subject, for there may be other beneficial measures we have not yet discovered simply because we could not imagine their use. 

No matter what the future holds, I feel I am ready to receive it. Every day I thank God for the blessings that have been bestowed upon me. And I thank you, dear sister, for your forbearance. I beg you will not be too angry with me for having concealed this much.

Now, to other subjects. Has there been any word regarding our friend? In your last you wrote that an investigation was being undertaken. Is any part of the matter resolved as yet? The admiral has said nothing in her letters and Thomas does not like to ask, being sensitive to the nature of her work and its frequent need for secrecy. I, however, feel no such compunction and expect you to reveal whatever you know. Given that you have left London as planned, I can only infer that nothing exceptional has occurred, but is it too much to hope that some progress has been made?

It pains me to think of you all alone on the estate, with only memories and worry for company. If you will not come to Brighton, promise me you will accept at least some of the invitations you are sure to receive? You need not attend any balls if you do not like. A few evenings of supper and cards are all I ask. The neighbourhood will be eager to see you again and I know you enjoy the company of our friends there. Please do not hide yourself away from everyone. It will do you no good.

I must close as the girls have returned from an outing with Thomas and are clamouring for my attention. They all send their love, as I do mine.

Fondly,  
Your sister,  
Phoebe

P.S. Hanna has just now asked me to say that she promises to write you a letter of her very own just as soon as her Papa mends her pen. Her practice has been diligent since we came away — for she wishes to impress her beloved aunt, of course — and I do believe her penmanship is improving, though it still requires some deciphering to make sense of yet. I jest, but you know how proud of her I am. Some days I look at her and cannot fathom how it has been seven years since I first held her tiny form in my arms. Goodness, I do not know what has come over me today, but let me cease this sentimental prosing at once!

27th June  
Brighton

Dear Aunt Kathryn,

I hope you are well. I am well and I like it very much here at Brighton but I would like it even more if you were here with us too. Mama says you have gone to Dryas Park instead. I like Dryas Park very much too but I think I like Brighton more. Papa is helping me to spell all my words that is why some of them are crossed out. Yesterday we went to tea at the Grand Pavilion. There was a whole castle made of marzipan and the tiniest cakes you ever saw! I wore my new frock and the pink ribbons you bought me last month even though Colleen says pink does not look well in my hair because it is red like yours. But I think she is just jealous because she lost her new ribbons and had to wear some old ones which are not as nice as mine. I have offered to lend her one if she promises not to lose it but that made her cross and then she sulked the rest of the morning. She can be very tiresome that way. Did Mama used to get cross about your ribbons when you were little girls? I try to imagine you and Mama little but it is hard. Mama says I am growing up to look just like you, though, isn't that funny? And she says I am like you because I hate to be wrong. But no one likes to be wrong, do they? Papa says I must finish my letter for we are to go swimming. If you come to Brighton we can go swimming together. I would like that very much.

Love,  
Your Niece,  
Hanna Kathryn Janeway  


* * *

29th June  
___________shire

Admiral,

Your letter has relieved me beyond measure. Of course I understand the details surrounding such matters must be closely guarded by only a select few. While I might wish my curiosity to be satisfied on every aspect, I am immensely grateful to you for sharing what you can and could never begrudge your adherence to duty. Indeed, I am so deeply indebted that I do not know how I can ever repay you.

Forgive me, but there is one point on which I must be certain. You are sure that no mention of my involvement in this has been betrayed to our friend? I do not question your integrity in the slightest, yet errors may be made by other parties. It was his particular request that I make no effort to assist him and I believe he would be discomfited were he to learn that I have so blatantly disregarded his wishes.

So you see, your compliment is quite misplaced. I think him a very worthy young man, but nothing more.

Regards &c.,  
K. J.

* * *

  
1st July  
___________shire

Commander Torres,

How well that sounds! I congratulate you most heartily both on your promotion and your assignment to the Laconia. I can think of no one more deserving than you, my friend. Captain La Forge will be fortunate indeed to have you at her side when next she sails. I will, of course, miss your company keenly, but know that I fully rejoice in your success.

I have left instructions with my solicitor regarding the continuing payment of Mr C.'s expenses. While I have every confidence in the efficiency and thoroughness of Miss Hansen, I confess to some anxiety regarding the arrangement nonetheless. Yes, yes, I am too apt to want to be at every helm, but it would ease my mind if you will allow me to impose upon you to look over the matter once or twice during my absence. I do not anticipate remaining at Dryas Park beyond the end of August, which is, I believe, well in advance of your orders to the Laconia. With your leave, I will write to Hansen and provide instructions for her to consult with you on the particulars.

Regarding your enquiry, Adm P. has been as forthcoming as possible but you know the matter is largely out of her hands. I am given to understand that the gentleman is well but remains closely guarded for his own safety while the matter is ongoing.

If you should ever desire to take in the bracing Northern air, know that you are always welcome at Dryas Park. (I hear your disparaging remarks about the cold, even in midsummer, but I promise to have a large fire burning in every room upon your arrival.) If you cannot be tempted then I look forward to your company when I return to Town.

Regards &c.,  
K.J.  


* * *

  
7th July  
___________shire

Dearest Phoebe,

I have read your letter three times now. Each time I have wept. 

When I first began to compose this reply, I was hurt and bewildered as to why you had never confided any of this to me previously. As I wrote and wrote, I came to see that my words served only to justify my sense of betrayal and place blame upon you. Then I was overcome with shame. I had not the smallest idea of the magnitude of my own selfishness until that moment.

My dear sister, I beg your forgiveness. For so long I have thought only of myself, never imagining that you might face trials and suffering entirely unknown to me. I have been arrogant in my assumptions and thoughtless in my dealings with you, and I know no means sufficient to make amends.

Allow me to say this: you have no cause for either apology or shame. You are a kind, generous, and above all loving mother. The health and happiness of your children attest to these facts. That you have had thoughts in times of great distress you would otherwise find unconscionable signifies nothing but that you are human. Those thoughts are no reflection on the goodness of your character, Phoebe, because you did not act upon them. We are none of us innocent within our thoughts; those we cannot help. The truth of our natures is revealed in what we do, and what you have done is the most any mother could. You have loved Harry and cared for him in every way. I am certain that he would not know his present degree of happiness were he not held so securely within the loving bosom of his family. Whatever peace and freedom he has attained is in great measure due to the firm foundation you and Thomas have created for all your children. I know Mother would say the very same. I know that she and Papa would be proud of you. Know that I am proud of you.

You must never again feel that you cannot tell me any of your troubles. I am not so fragile as all that. It grieves me to know that I have contributed to, rather than lessened, your burdens. And it pains me to realise that of all my nieces and nephews it's only Hanna that I truly know, for Colleen was not even a year old when I went to war and both boys were born in my absence. I pledge to you now that I will do better. I will look further beyond my own concerns. I will be a greater presence in their lives and in yours. 

Let me help you in whatever manner I am able. Whatever you require to establish a home in Brighton, it will be yours. If you have need, we will hire a second nurse or a governess. If Harry's health demands that he must remain always in Brighton then James and the girls may come and stay with me as often as they like both here and at Dryas Park. And I will come to you as often as I can. Whatever is in my power to do will be done so that you may concentrate on the care of your family. Our family. There is naught in the world more important than my duty to you all. 

Oh, I am so frustrated at my uselessness to you right now! I can hear you laughing at me as I write. But I take comfort in your assurances of your present happiness. 

You asked for news of our friend. Rather than make an echo of myself, I have enclosed Adm P.'s letter on that subject for your perusal. Thomas may read it if you like, but it ought not be shared elsewhere for obvious reasons. 

All is well here at Dryas Park. We have had a good spring, not too wet, and Telford is confident of good harvests all round. I have completed visits with all of our tenants, mediated a few minor disputes, and am looking into a matter of insufficient drainage in the west valley that was brought to my attention. Old Mr Ellis died last month. His funeral was well attended. All agreed that the neighbourhood would not be the same without his quiet, steady presence. I fear Mrs Ellis will not be long with us either, for she takes his passing very hard. In happier news, Mrs Kingsley has added another to her brood, a little girl who is named Gretchen, in honour of Mother. I was greatly moved by the gesture and thanked her for both our sakes. 

I have not, as you put it, hidden myself away from everyone. To date I have accepted three invitations to dine, two of which have already taken place: once at the Walthams, the other at the Fairwells. Both were enjoyable in their way, though Mr Fairwell seems to be intent on matchmaking. I was seated next to the eldest son, who can be no more than sixteen, I am sure, and appeared dreadfully embarrassed by the whole business, poor thing. Truly, I have no objection to meeting eligible young men, but I would prefer that they were, indeed, men rather than boys. Do their papas really expect me to take a child for a husband? Honestly, Phoebe, at times it makes me wonder what on earth they can be thinking. Fortunately, Mrs Fairwell is uninterested in promoting the match. In fact, I received the distinct impression that she was not pleased by her husband's scheme. For my sake, as well as young Mr Fairwell's, I hope she is successful in quelling her husband's enthusiasm. 

I have also (yes, Phoebe, also) attended a luncheon, two supper and card parties, and several other small entertainments. There, does that satisfy, madam?

It is quite late in the evening now as I draw to a close. This has been a difficult letter to write and I have spent most of the day coming and going from it, which may be apparent to you. In spite of that difficulty, I feel tonight suffused with a profound sense of humility and gratitude. I have misjudged a great many things, but now am granted an opportunity to correct my errors. I will do so with a glad heart.

All my love,  
Kathryn  


__

* * *

  
8th July  
London

What nonsense, girl. Even had your mother not been my dearest friend, there would still be no need for gratitude in regards to protecting the interests of our sovereign and nation. But if you insist, you may invite me to dine when you are next in Town and tell your cook to make me one of those delightful Lé Olaroot tarts of his. Then we shall have no more talk of indebtedness.

I regret that I can offer no further direct news of our friend. Be assured, however, that what has been set in motion progresses steadily towards its purpose. Both Fleet Admiral Crusher and Field Marshal Kira are confident of its ultimate success.

As to your query, rest assured, your name was never mentioned. I confess I had thought there might be some understanding between you and the gentleman, but if it was merely invention on my part then I hope you will forgive an old woman her presumption.

Regards &c.,  
E.P.  


  


* * *

10th July  
___________shire

Dear Miss Hanna Kathryn Janeway,

How pleased I was to receive your letter! I am quite impressed by how few crossed out words it contained. Both your spelling and penmanship have progressed remarkably. Your diligence is proving an admirable success and I am very proud of you.

I would dearly love to come to Brighton and swim with you but I'm afraid it isn't possible just now. I promise, however, that we shall go swimming together at the very next opportunity.

While I do have many tales of your mama's bad behaviour when we were girls, the sad truth is that, were I to repeat any of them, she would no doubt retaliate with tales of her own. What would you think if she revealed how I once delighted in catching frogs and putting them in her shoes to frighten her? No, I had better stay my pen lest I lose your good opinion of me! 

It can indeed be tiresome on occasion to have a little sister, but it is also a great joy. I would not trade your mama for anything and I am certain you would not trade Colleen, despite her sulking. It is hard at times, I know, but try to be patient with her. For all that it isn't easy to be the elder sister, it is equally difficult to be the younger. She looks up to you and much of her jealousy is due to that admiration, for she so wants to be like you and do everything just as you do. That does not excuse her bad behaviour, of course, but perhaps understanding its cause will help you to better endure it. (Though I do not at all think it unreasonable to ask for her promise to take care with your things when you lend them. And I agree with you: no one likes to be wrong, your mama included.)

You will be pleased to learn that Maisie has just had her first litter and is the proud mama of five tiny pups. Come autumn and your return to Dryas Park they shall be weaned and ready for playmates to love and cuddle them. Do you think you and your sister and brothers will be up to the task?

I shall be very happy when we are all together again, for I miss you all dearly, but until then you must be sure to enjoy your time at Brighton and see as many new and interesting things as you can. Give Colleen a kiss from me and tell her that a young lady may wear whatever colours please her as long as she is neat and clean, whether she be red-headed or not.

With much love, and a kiss for you too,  
Aunt Kathryn  


  


* * *

15th July  
___________shire

Admiral,

You must know that you never need wait on an invitation to my home. Even had your son not made my sister the happiest of women, you would still always be most welcome, for you have been a good friend to me all my life. (Although the less said about leading strings, the better. As I recall from the stories my father delighted in telling, I was not a child especially amenable to being curtailed.)

I shall write and inform Mr Neelix that his particular talents will soon be required for a most discerning guest. He will be delighted to oblige you as no one in the household has a palate sophisticated enough to appreciate his Lé Olaroot and he is therefore unable to prepare his signature dish with any frequency.

You have no need to ask forgiveness, for I am not offended in the slightest. My only intent was to correct your misapprehension. Truly, I am glad you like the gentleman. He has need of real friends, at this juncture especially, and he could find no better than you.

Regards &c.,  
K.J.  


* * *

  
20th July  
Brighton 

Dearest Kathryn,

I beg you to cease chastising yourself for these imagined sins. In telling you of our troubles, my intention was not to cause you pain. The opposite, in fact. I wished to give you a more complete understanding of the matter so that you might share fully in my joy. There is nothing for which you need atone, dear sister. You have done no wrong to me or to any of us. However, if you truly feel in need of my forgiveness then you have it, absolutely.

Now let me be the one to apologise. My secrecy in no way arose from a lack of confidence in you. I am sorry that I have led you to think I did not wish to confide in you. This all came about quite gradually, you see. In the beginning, I believed myself at fault, that Harry's difficulties were due to my failure as a mother. I was ashamed that I could not comfort my own child or understand his needs. It was only upon the loss of our second nurse that Thomas spoke to me quite sternly and forced me to see it was Harry himself who was troubled. We took him to see a doctor then, an apparent expert in diseases of childhood. Katie, it was the most utterly dreadful experience I have ever known. The things that woman said about our little boy were so abhorrent I cannot bear to repeat them here. Their effect on Thomas was even more severe. Never have I seen him so angry as he was that day.

Thanks to Mother's enlightened philosophy and Papa's excellent example, I, like you, have given no credence to the notion that men are irrational creatures, too driven by their emotions to live without the guidance and oversight of women. But that day I began to have an idea of some small justice in such thinking. As soon as we arrived home, I had to take Thomas out into the garden for fear that he would upset the children with his display. It was a singular experience, I may say, for he had never behaved in such a manner before. He has only ever been a gentle, loving husband and father, as you know, but such was the extreme distress of the day's events as to render him quite savage. 

Painful as it is for me to talk of these things now, it was a thousand times worse then. I do not think that I could have told you of it had you been in the next room, let alone at sea as you were. That itself was a consideration, too. You were fighting a war, Kathryn. Each morning I woke wondering if that would be the day I received word you had been lost in battle. Each night that drew to a close without such news was a gift. I did not want to distract you from your purpose by telling you of troubles about which you could do nothing but worry. To my mind, confidences could wait, for it was far, far more important to me that you return safely.

I thank God every day that you lived and came home to us. Yet I do not know if I can express how it was in those first months of your convalescence. You were so different, so unlike the sister I had known. Beyond your terrible injuries, it seemed that your very soul had been wounded. There were days when I was sure you even regretted having survived. I feared for you, then, I truly did. I felt quite helpless to be of use to you. Oh, I could tend to the wounds of your body, yet those other wounds were beyond my ability to understand. We were separated by a gulf impassable, it seemed. 

Dr Kes and Lieutenant Torres were great comforts to me during those months. They were so kind, so reassuring. They inspired in me real hope that you would be well again, in time. But it was such a long time, Katie, and so difficult for you. How could I add to the burden you were already suffering? I only wanted my sister again. More than anything else. Can you understand?

In truth, it has only been since the winter that I feel you have wholly returned to me. And I believe all the credit must go to Mr Chakotay. I know I spoke very harshly of him to you at first. I regret that now, for it has been many months since my opinion of him was altered. (Be sure to mark this date. It is likely the only time I will ever admit to being happy to be wrong.) You cannot know how glad I am to be acquainted with him, both for his own sake and for yours. With what joy have we all witnessed the remarkable effect his influence has had upon you! Do you know how long it had been since I heard you really laugh, Kathryn? Years. Not since before you left for the war. Not until Mr Chakotay came. His presence seems to have acted as a sort of restorative to your spirits and if for no other reason than that would I esteem him the rest of my life. You have been so happy, so much yourself, since meeting him, that my own happiness has increased immeasurably to witness it. Indeed, I believe every aspect of our lives improved during that time, so much so that I had no reason to trouble you. Nor would I have had the heart to do so in any case. I would not lay a shadow upon your lightness for the world.

So you see, the reasons for my concealment were numerous. If I have yet been unsuccessful in dispelling the notion that I lack faith in you then let me say this: you are never useless to me. Never. I do not know how to tell you what your letter has meant, what a balm it has been to wounds I did not know I carried. Though I am a grown woman with children of my own, I find that I am still in need of the consolation of my sister. My heart is greatly eased by your approbation and generosity. I thank you again and again for my own sake and for Thomas and the children. 

Do not forget, however, that just as my family is yours, you are also mine. I wish you would not look upon us as a duty. I do not require you to take care of me, only to love and allow yourself to be loved in return. You are not the captain here. It is not your responsibility to always bear the brunt of whatever ills befall us. I know, I know, you are the eldest and heir, and you take that role every bit as seriously as Mother did. That is admirable. But consider that Mother also took time for pleasure; she took care to ensure room for joy in her life. I worry that you so thoroughly discount your own happiness. We who love you do not want your sacrifice for our sakes. We simply want you. We want you to live and embrace the happiness you so richly deserve. 

It had once seemed to me you were resigned to wed simply for the sake of duty. I dearly hope that is no longer the case. (And that is all I will say in regards to the matter, for I do not wish to force a confidence. But I shall be happy to hear anything you wish to tell me when you are ready.)

I thank you for the inclusion of Admiral Paris' letter (which I return enclosed to you). It is a distressing circumstance, to be sure, but her conviction inspires my own. I feel certain that all will be well and that by the time the leaves begin to change we shall all be dining together as we used to. Unless you should prefer to dine again with the Fairwells? (Forgive me for teasing, but what are younger sisters for? I can only imagine how uncomfortable the evening must have been and I am certain young Mr Fairwell appreciated your solicitude.)

I am sorry to hear of the death of Mr Ellis for I recall that he was always very kind. Do not be angry with me, but I cannot find anything in Mrs Kingsley's naming her daughter after Mother but an attempt at a toadying sort of flattery. You know I have never liked that woman since we were children. There is not a genuine bone in her body. Mark my words, she will come calling with an unctuous smile and her greedy hands out before the poor child learns to crawl. And you, my soft-hearted sister, will likely give her whatever she asks for the sake of little Gretchen. Let us hope that at least one of the Kingsley girls has spine and sense enough to overcome her blood, for we cannot hope that Mr Kingsley's influence will be any counter to his wife's.

Now let me tell you something that as yet remains a secret from any other. I do not wish to speak of it to Thomas until I am certain for fear of disappointing him, but I believe I am again with child. I have not felt the quickening and therefore cannot yet be sure, but, oh, Katie, I am sure. I feel the presence of this little one as I felt Hanna and Colleen and James and Harry each in turn. I am so happy I can hardly bear it. To share this news with you only increases my happiness.

Hanna came running in to show me your letter as I was writing the last. It has been less than a day since, and already I feel as if I have been transported to Bedlam. I take back every compliment written thus far. You are a thoroughly wretched creature by way of a sister. How could you tell her about Maisie's puppies? Had you no earthly notion of what havoc such news would wreak in a household of four children? There will be not a moment of peace from now until we return to Dryas Park, for Hanna's frenzy of anticipation has been quite contagious to the others, even Harry. I do not think that he entirely comprehends what the fuss is about, but he is very happy to participate in the wild delight of his sisters and brother nonetheless. It is to your great benefit that you are a journey of ten days away at present, else I should saddle a horse and ride straight back to London just for the pleasure of pulling your hair and pushing your face in the mud. That is how angry with you I am. And don't you dare laugh at me, Kathryn Elizabeth! 

Of course, now I am laughing a little myself. Do you recall the day when I discovered the frogs you had put in my new white slippers? I was eight I think and you were ten. You made me so angry that I chased you all the way down to the pond and pushed you in. By the time Papa found us (and I still do not know who told, do you?), we were filthy with mud and reeds and God knows what else. I remember that he looked at us with not a word for what seemed an eternity, though could have only been a minute or two. Then he turned his head away from us and said, "I am sorely disappointed in you both. I cannot even look at you right now." How crushed I was by those words! I stood there, cold and miserable, feeling smaller than I ever had in my life. But you marched right around to face him and told him that it was entirely your fault and you were the one who should be punished, not me. All my anger was forgotten in that moment. You looked so fierce and resolute, Katie, and you had told Papa a falsehood to spare me. I thought you must be the bravest person who ever lived (excepting Mama, naturally). Of course, Papa knew what had really happened and we were both punished equally, but I have never forgotten how I felt in that moment, when I first understood that you would always protect me.

One day I hope it shall be my turn to protect you.

The hours have felt spun to extra lengths today, in that pleasant way of summer, but tonight I am a little melancholy for it feels such a long time since we parted. Far longer than the date would have me believe. While I have no desire for this marvellous Brighton idyll to end, I am so eager to be with you again. Until such time as we are together once more, know that you are often in my thoughts and always in my heart. (Though do not think for a moment you will escape retribution for the puppies.)

Your loving sister,  
Phoebe  


* * *

21st July  
___________shire

My Dear Ocampa,

Please forgive me for my delay in replying to your last letter, which I received with so much pleasure a fortnight ago. I have thought of many excuses to offer you, all of which are true, but I must confess that cowardice lies at the root. Whenever I have sat down at my desk to the purpose, I see your face looking back at me with such patient concern that I know, were I to put pen to paper, I would tell you all, or at least that which is mine to tell. I have been frightened by the thought of such admissions for reasons I do not entirely understand.

Tonight I am no less afraid, but I find myself unable to keep to silence. 

You wrote of my letter in June that it contained a note of melancholy throughout. I am again astonished at your perspicacity, and not a little piqued, for I worked so hard to maintain a cheerful tone. You are correct, of course, my friend. There is indeed a matter that depresses my spirits quite thoroughly. Have no fear that I am returned to the state in which you found me following Trafalgar. I am well enough and in no danger of either body or spirit, only heartsick to a degree I have not experienced since the loss of my parents. Then, I took comfort in my sister, and little Hanna who was newly arrived in the world. There is no such comfort for me now. Not because it has been refused me, but because I have not dared to ask. 

I have been so foolish as to form an attachment to a most unsuitable gentleman. It is a more passionate and profound regard than I have ever felt for another, not even dear Justin, gone these many years. At times the force of this emotion has quite frightened me. Yet it also brings me an unfamiliar solace, as if the love I carry within me heals even as I am wounded by its stifling. What is it about strong feeling that causes such distress when we must curb its expression? From where does this bodily discomfort arise?

No matter. I have severed the connection. I have done what was required. The pain of doing so has been acute, much more than I anticipated. I confess that in this instance I am unable to feel the satisfaction of having done my duty. All I am able to feel is the loss of a cherished friend, without the right or cause to mourn. His absence is an empty space beside me that I turn to without thought again and again. It is an ache in my chest and my throat so severe at times I cannot breathe. Nothing eases it. Nothing consoles me. I had thought to return to Dryas Park and be soothed, like an animal returning to its den to nurse its wounds. My walks have indeed brought me some tranquility, at least so long as I remain on the Peak. Now more than ever the rough landscape satisfies some part of me in a similar fashion to the sea.

Yet this, too, serves as a reminder of what I lack. I picture him here with me and know that he would find the same beauty I see in the limestone crags; he would delight in the little mountain avens as I do. Ocampa, I miss him so dreadfully even here. I cannot escape the oppressive weight of this pain. Wherever I am, whatever I do, the want of his presence gnaws at me like a dog upon a bone. For I found in him the answer to a question I had not known to ask. Without him, the call of that question receives only desolate silence in response.

In my hubris, I thought I knew every facet of love. I believed adherence to duty would promote contentment above the sorrow of any personal sacrifice. What a fool I was. Daily I care less and less for the duty I once cherished. Now I long to cherish only him. A terrible selfishness takes me over, whispering of what might be. I have tried to remain steadfast against it. I swear to you that I have tried. But you would be shocked to learn how much my secret heart would give up that it might have him. Indeed, I shock myself. I scarcely recognise this woman who listlessly wanders these familiar rooms where once she was so cheerful.

It is very late now, or perhaps more accurate to say very early. I daren't read over the words I have written here. Simply knowing what I have revealed makes me wonder how I can send this to you, with all laid so bare on the page; too much truth may be a dangerous thing. Yet I trust you even more than myself in this, I think. You see so clearly and I am so lost, so conflicted, and so in need of guidance. How shall I conquer this affliction? What remedy may I procure? Surely there must be some way to rid my heart of its agony and restore my peace. Help me know how to begin.

This letter commenced with a plea for forgiveness and so it shall conclude. Forgive the overwrought nature of the sentiments contained herein. I hope that you are well and that the heat of London's summer does not take too much of a toll upon you. Know that you are always welcome here should you feel in need of respite, even if I am away. Dorcot has instructions to receive you in my absence, though I suspect no such instruction is necessary given his particular fondness for you. And if you wish to come during what remains of this month or next, I shall be delighted to greet you myself.

Your affectionate friend,  
Kathryn  


* * *

22nd July  
London

K.,

It is done. All is at an end. The guilty parties are apprehended and their fates are sealed. 

I am pleased to report that as of tomorrow our friend will once more resume his life as a man unencumbered by the fear of reprisal from those who would name him their enemy.

There is a last item of information I am able to offer you, as it will soon become known in any case. You may recall that a number of years ago the French ambassador of the day, Severine d'Orvan, died under highly suspicious circumstances. It was reported at the time that her husband and two children perished with her. This was a partial truth perpetuated in order to guarantee the safety of the single survivor: her youngest child, a son. Unbeknownst to almost all, the child has grown into his majority in comfortable anonymity. Your Mr Chakotay is, in fact, Mr Chakotay d'Orvan.

I leave you to imagine the ways in which that connection, once discovered, was used against him by those responsible for the deaths of all his family. It was, of course, the precise reason he was seduced and ensnared by the viper. It was also the poison used to bind him. Fortunately, the gentleman's natural cleverness served him well. His suspicions being aroused, he took it upon himself to determine truth from falsehood. Though he was careful to maintain a façade of ignorance to aid his subterfuge, he believes that Seska had begun to suspect him before breaking their connection. However, as he was far more use to her alive than dead, she contented herself with having ruined his reputation and then destroying the good opinion of all his acquaintance. It is unclear at present how she became aware of his arrest and imprisonment — the responsible party remains to be uncovered — but she caused a message to be delivered to him that promised certain unsavoury consequences should he reveal any information against her. He knew her too well to disbelieve the threat. 

I think you will agree that, in light of this, his foolhardy refusal of your assistance is understandable. Still, had you not been so insistent on demanding justice for the young man, God only knows the extent of the terrible consequences that would have arisen from his misguided attempt at martyrdom. I know that acting against his express wishes has troubled you, but consider what a tremendous service you have done. Not only have you saved the gentleman's life, you have also ensured that our nation is secured against a malevolent outside peril. I am proud of you, Captain Janeway, for your courage and for your disinterested devotion to what is right and good. If I may be so bold as to invoke my long and treasured friendship with your mother, I know that she would be equally proud of you.

In the spirit of that friendship, there is one more thing I wish to say before we have done with the matter. Duty is not all. Gretchen would be the first to tell you that. Take time for happiness, Kathryn. None who love you will begrudge you any part of it. Indeed, they will celebrate your happiness as their own. Some costs are easy to bear when the reward is great, while the weight of regret grows heavier with every passing year. I do not wish that burden to fall upon your shoulders needlessly, my dear girl, strong though they be.

Forgive me if this advice is officious or I speak out of turn. Sincere affection for you is my sole motive but at times it may lead me astray. If that be the case, I beg your pardon.

Regards &c.,  
E.P.  


* * *

6th August  
London

P., do not be angry with me when you see the post mark on this letter. I would have advised you of my intention to return to Town early if there had been the slightest chance that a letter would have arrived with you before I arrived here myself. I expect you've already sent a reply to my last via Dryas Park. If so, Dorcot will have ensured it is forwarded on and I dare say it shall arrive not far behind me. At least now the post will be quicker between us.

Much as I love the dear old place and was happy to see it again, I confess I am glad to return to London. This house feels more like home to me than anywhere else now, and as much affection as I hold for the curmudgeonly ways of Dorcot, no one can compare with Tuvok. He and his staff are, as usual, seeing to my every need before I even have it. I've not the faintest idea what I shall do without him when he finally consents to retire from service.

I hope everyone is well and Brighton continues to delight. 

Love to you all,  
K.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter just kept getting longer and wouldn't stop. thank god i didn't try to keep it as part of chapter 4 as originally planned. for reference, my fictional county is based on the peak district in derbyshire, specifically the white peak. if you'd like a visual for the manor house at dryas park, in my head it looks like haddon hall. oh, and i stole the laconia from _persuasion_.


	6. Chapter 6

"Come," Janeway called at the sound of the quick, precise double knock unique to Tuvok. She didn't bother to look away from the window as the door opened.

"Pardon me, Captain, but there is someone here to see you."

She turned, frowning in rebuke. "Tuvok, my instructions were quite clear. I am not at home to callers."

"Yes, Captain." He hesitated in an uncharacteristic fashion. "Forgive me, it is only that I thought perhaps you might wish to speak with this gentleman."

"And which gentleman would that be?"

"Mr Chakotay." 

Janeway's heart slammed a hard beat beneath her ribs. Shock robbed her of speech.

"I have taken the liberty of showing him to the orangery. If I have overstepped in doing so, I apologise."

"No," she managed to say. "No, Tuvok, thank you."

"Shall I see to some refreshment?"

"Please. And please tell Mr Chakotay that I will be with him presently."

"Of course, Captain."

The door closed behind Tuvok and all was again still. Janeway looked about her, feeling that the room itself had shifted, as though the very earth was complicit in her sudden upheaval. 

Upon receiving word of Chakotay's liberty, she had returned to London in a state of urgency only to find herself at something of a loss. What had she thought being here would accomplish? She'd asked herself that very question every day since. Of course she could have no expectation of seeing him. Chakotay had made his position quite clear and she had no wish to cause him further distress. Yet if they should have met by chance, if she could only see him with her own eyes and be reassured. That, she had felt, might be enough.

_Now he is here,_ she repeated to herself in the privacy of her thoughts. Why had he come? What would he say? She could make no sense of it and there wasn't time to prepare herself. There wasn't time for anything.

Her coat had been abandoned carelessly upon a chair some hours before. Now she collected it, shrugging it on with motions made awkward by haste. Her fingers did not quite seem able to manage the buttons with their usual ease and some detached part of her mind observed the trembling of her hands. Fear and elation warred for the greater share of her heart, which was beating an almost painful tattoo. 

Janeway wished fleetingly for a mirror to inspect herself, then dismissed such vanity with a shake of her head. Taking several deep breaths, she made a final adjustment to the line of her coat. Her looks were of no matter. Whatever the purpose of Chakotay's call, it was certainly not to admire her.

§

His jailers had shorn his hair. 

That observation struck her before any other. Though it was not an unusual measure to curb the spread of lice, Janeway wondered at its benefits for an isolated prisoner. The new growth had reached no more than an inch or two in length. It stood out stiffly from his head like the bristles of a brush, making her palms itch to feel the give and spring of the soft, blunt ends. Such unfashionable severity of style ought to have rendered his appearance less pleasing, she thought. Instead, it threw the strong lines and angles of his face into sharper relief, enhancing the illusion that he'd been sculpted from finer stuff than clay. 

The wind that had blown strong all morning had tossed about her own hair and the limbs of trees alike on her walk from the house. All the world appeared alive with restless motion, even the clouds high above. Chakotay alone stood immobile, fixed in place behind the wall of glass. Lovingly bathed in a golden spill of sunlight, he could have been a bronze statue of a dark angel before the fall. 

Janeway had approached the orangery by an indirect path to allow her this moment of observation before they came face to face. As she entered, he turned in her direction, then smiled with every appearance of delight. She felt herself flush like a girl and understood, as she hadn't before, that an eternity would not have been time enough to ready her for this.

"Captain Janeway," he said, bowing at her approach.

How had she forgotten the rich timbre of his voice? Its effect on her was nothing short of an aural caress, sending a shiver down her spine. "Mr Chakotay," she replied, hoping her own voice did not betray the tumult of her feelings. Then, realising her error, she said quickly, "I beg your pardon. It is Mr d'Orvan, is it not?"

"Ah, yes." He reached up to touch his ear before seeming to recall himself and swiftly lowering his arm. "I did not know that you were aware."

"Yes, I — I had heard."

"I see."

Her eyes devoured the sight of him as they conversed. She knew herself to be staring in the most ill-mannered fashion, yet could not help it. They stood several feet apart, a decorous distance by any measure, but her heart was beating so hard she thought he must surely be able to hear it. "I was very pleased to learn of your exoneration," she told him sincerely. "I hope you are not suffering any lingering effects from your ordeal."

"Thank you. I am well."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"And you?" he asked, taking a step nearer. "Are you well?"

"Perfectly so, thank you."

A slight frown marred his brow as he continued to look at her. Flustered by his scrutiny, she cast about for something beyond the ordinary inanities of polite conversation. Chakotay, it seemed, felt no such difficulty. 

"Forgive my impertinence, Captain, but you appear altered since last we met. I hope you have not suffered an illness."

His percipience discomposed her further and she said the first thing that came into her head. "No. That is, nothing of consequence." 

While it was the truth — she had not been ill — her appetite had been uncertain during the last months. It disturbed her to think that the slight hollowing of her cheeks and the looser fit of her clothing were noticeable to anyone but Wildman. 

He came even closer, all earnest solicitude."You are certain? You are quite recovered?"

"Yes. I assure you. I am well."

"I am relieved to hear it."

His dark eyes held such warmth, and he stood so near; her senses were filled with him. Silence of a different tenor drew down around them, broken only by the gentle plash of the fountain. The air smelled pleasantly of green growth and soil, with the lingering sweet scent of blossoms. This heady combination was to blame, Janeway told herself, for the words that rose all unbidden and were poised to fall from her lips. Only the sound of the door opening behind her saved her from speaking an entirely too revealing truth. 

She drew away, seeking a safer distance, before turning to face the servant whose approach was heralded by the gentle clinking of china. "You may set it on that table there," she directed.

"Will there be anything else, Captain?"

"No, thank you, Jenny. You may go."

With a quick bob of her head, the girl turned and left them.

Commanding herself to calm, Janeway reached for a cup and saucer. "Would you care for tea?"

Some undefined expression flitted across Chakotay's features. "Thank you, but I had not intended to intrude upon your privacy for long."

"Oh." Disappointment settled heavily within her, though she maintained a polite smile. "Of course. I would not wish to keep you from your other appointments."

"I have no other appointments," he replied. "I was only unsure... You did say that we ought not see one another again."

Her heart constricted painfully at the reminder. She had to look away toward the sunlit expanse of lawn to compose herself. "So I did."

"In truth, I was uncertain if you would consent to receive me at all."

"And yet you came. Why not simply send a note?"

"What I have to say to you is of too much consequence to entrust to mere paper and ink." 

Hearing the quiet intensity in his voice, her gaze returned to him, her attention suspended half in curiosity and half in dread. "Very well."

Chakotay raised his chin a fraction. "I wish you to know that I am not ignorant of the trouble you have taken upon yourself on my behalf. I know it was you who urged Admiral Paris to investigate the matter surrounding my arrest. I know it was you who discharged my expenses during my imprisonment."

These were truths he ought never have come to know; ones with which Janeway had never thought to be confronted. As at every Rubicon, she felt a pressing need to act, to challenge, or at the very least find some bodily means of occupation. Surprised to look down and see a cup and saucer still held in her hand, she set them none too gently on the table. 

"Admiral Paris assured me that you were not informed of my involvement," was her stiff response.

If Chakotay was in any way affected by the change in her demeanour, he gave no sign. "I was not, at least not directly. However, the admiral's interest followed so quickly after your visit to me that I could not but infer a link between the two events. My suspicions were later confirmed by Lieutenant Torres."

"Torres?" Janeway asked, incredulous.

"You mustn't blame her," he said quickly. "I'm sure you can imagine my surprise on discovering that not only were my lodgings still available to me after months away, but also that another party had been paying rent on my behalf. Upon enquiry, my landlady happened to mention receiving the funds from the firm of Hansen and Hansen. As I know that Miss Hansen is your solicitor, it was not difficult to make the necessary connections. Then I simply presented my information to Lieutenant Torres and asked her to tell me whether or not I had the right of it."

"Which she proceeded to do."

"Oh, no. She denied it quite adamantly." He flashed the ghost of a smile. "But you must admit that your friend is a very poor liar." 

"Yes, I suppose so." Janeway pressed a hand to her brow in consternation. "I had not intended that you should discover my interference in your affairs. Please accept my apologies for disregarding your wishes."

"Your apologies?" Shaking his head, he took a step closer. "No, Captain, you misunderstand." One hand rose, extended as if in entreaty. "I cannot be anything other than grateful. How could I be? You have gone to such extraordinary lengths on my behalf. You saved my life. I do not know how to begin to thank you and yet I do thank you, deeply and sincerely."

"It was nothing extraordinary, sir," she said with difficulty. Something sharp seemed to have lodged in her throat. "I acted in order to correct the perpetuation of an injustice, that is all. There was no intent on my part to create a sense of obligation."

For a long moment, Chakotay made no response. Janeway thought perhaps he was studying her, but couldn't be sure without looking directly, something she felt oddly reluctant to do.

"May I not yet be grateful for the benefits granted me?" He spoke in the gentlest of tones. "And may I not express that gratitude?"

"Of course," she murmured, finding herself unequal to further argument. Such generous sentiments should not wound her so, but how could she tell him that his gratitude was the very last thing she desired or deserved? That she would rather have him unknowing than for him to feel encumbered in the slightest measure? If only he did not _affect_ her so this would all be perfectly natural and sensible.

Her gaze landed on the table with its array of pretty cakes, sandwiches, and fruit that seemed so incongruous in the present circumstance. _His tea will get cold,_ she thought inconsequentially. 

"Captain, are you unwell?" came Chakotay's soft voice.

Embarrassed by her lapse in attention, and most especially his notice of it, Janeway made a great effort to adopt her usual manner. "Pardon me. Are you sure you will not take some refreshment?"

"If it would not be an imposition," he said easily, as if nothing unusual had occurred.

"Not at all." Sitting, she gestured for him to do so as well. The familiar motions of pouring out steadied her and she proceeded to add milk and sugar to his cup as she'd so often done before. "I see Mr Neelix has included caramel tarts in his selection today. I believe they are your favourites."

Glancing up as she passed the cup and saucer, she found a look in his eyes that made her breath catch. Those perceptive eyes, which had so haunted her awake and asleep, now held her fast. She did not know what such a look could signify in relation to tea and caramel tarts.

His quiet "thank you" provided no insight.

They ate and drank to the accompaniment of the fountain's liquid song. Contemplating her companion from beneath her lashes, Janeway sipped from her cup and nibbled at some confection or other, but tasted neither. For months, she had felt tossed about, unable to find either equilibrium or comfort. His company was working upon her more fiercely than the wind outside: churning the waves where she anchored and further unsettling her little boat. Yet by the same tempest did she find the hollow burden she carried — all the heavier for being empty than fullness could ever be — inexplicably eased. 

Chakotay himself seemed lost in thought, his gaze fixed on some distant view beyond the windows. There had been a time when she would have felt free enough to ask for a share of whatever occupied his mind, but no longer. Any claim on him she might once have possessed was long since relinquished. He was little more than a stranger now, and through no fault but her own.

That unhappy truth made her no more sanguine at the prospect of farewelling him again, as she knew she must, and for good. The very thought overwhelmed her with an ineffable sorrow so vast she felt as if she might drown in it.

Pushing her chair back, Janeway rose hastily, eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere of her thoughts. Her cup landed in its saucer rather more heavily than intended and produced an almost musical sound. Beneath it, in her mind, rang the deeper, harsher clang of irons. 

"Would you care to take a turn?" she asked Chakotay a little too loudly. "I would propose the garden but the weather appears inclined to turn inclement, so we must make do here."

He gave no indication of surprise at her suggestion, did not even glance outside at the scudding grey clouds; he simply smiled and said, "With pleasure." 

They walked in silence for a time. With a bittersweet pang, Janeway recognised they had unconsciously taken up the course of their previous walks. It had been their habit to move first west from the fountain, then turn and cross back to the east, and finally return to the centre, often merely to begin again. She wondered if Chakotay recognised the familiar pattern, but did not dare to ask. Whether affirmative or negative, she could not say which answer would pain her more.

"My compliments to Mr Neelix," he said when the sound of the fountain had faded somewhat. "His caramel tarts are more delicious than I remembered."

The words drew a genuine smile to her lips. "He will be delighted to hear it."

"It was very kind of him to recall my preference."

"He takes great pleasure in pleasing others. We are fortunate to have secured his service."

Chakotay made a soft noise of agreement before clearing his throat. "Ah, Captain, I should like to continue our earlier conversation, if you will permit me."

"Certainly," she replied, with a curious glance at his profile, having thought the matter closed. 

"I must first explain something of the way in which my circumstances have been altered by recent events. You are aware that the parties directly associated with the former Lady Seska's plot have been captured and imprisoned?"

"I am."

"Although I was privy only to a small part of the information gathered, it seems that during the investigation into their operations certain alliances with factions on the continent came to light."

The news was startling. "I had no notion of the conspiracy being so widespread."

"Nor I. However, I understand that there remains some concern regarding the possibility of reprisal from those quarters. Therefore, it has been decided that my involvement in the matter is to remain undisclosed beyond those who are already aware."

"That seems a wise course to ensure your safety."

"I cannot but agree," he said, with a slight laugh. "I am told that my service to the Crown would ordinarily attract a certain public recognition, but under the circumstances that is inadvisable. In lieu of such, I have been so fortunate as to be granted a generous annuity by Her Majesty, which provides me with a guaranteed income."

Janeway laid a hand upon his sleeve and stopped, smiling in real gladness. "I am so pleased for you, Chakotay. There can be none more deserving, I'm sure."

He blushed charmingly and looked down, but a smile lingered about his lips. "I confess it quite astonishes me. I had no idea of reward at all."

_No,_ she thought on a great swell of tenderness, _no, you wouldn't have._

Too many feelings were crowded within her then; too many words pressed at her tongue. She was full of a wistful longing for the right to take his hand and tell him how very proud she was of all he had done, of all that he was. 

Succumbing to such sentimentality would only embarrass them both.

"Shall we continue on?"

At his nod, they resumed walking. After perhaps six or seven paces, Chakotay spoke again. "I am very conscious that the greatest portion of what I owe to you can never be repaid, that gratitude is all I may ever offer on that score. However, I do wish to reimburse the sum you have outlaid on my behalf."

"There is no need for that."

"You are very generous, Captain, and you have always been so to me, but I have no desire to trespass on that generosity, especially now when repayment will cause me no hardship. Please allow me this much, at least."

How humiliating it was to understand, all at once, the hope she had nurtured somewhere deep in her heart only when it was crushed. Truly, it was almost comical. What had she imagined? That he would declare his undying love and beg her to have him, as if they were actors in some mawkish play upon a stage? Chakotay would never behave in that way and she would certainly not want it. He was a man of honour, the very best of men. Of course he would wish to settle what he perceived to be a debt. Of course he would come here with no other purpose in mind.

"Whatever use I have been to you, it is the very least I could have done," Janeway told him in all sincerity. "You have no debt with me, sir, and I beg you would not ask me to invent one."

It was Chakotay who halted their progress this time, and turned, studying her for so long that she felt her face begin to heat.

At last, he smiled and shook his head. "Only you could make it seem that it is _I_ who is doing _you_ the favour here, Captain."

How could it be, she wondered, that she had kept her footing on the deck of many a ship through battles, and storms, and towering swells, but this man could disrupt her balance so swiftly and with such ease? A look, a smile, a few simple words were all it took.

"I have merely said what is true," she demurred. 

His expression softened from amusement into something more thoughtful, though his dark eyes remained intent upon her. "If you insist," he said quietly.

Searching for a means to reorient herself, Janeway looked about and saw with some surprise that they were nearly at the orangery's western wall. "Shall we turn back?"

They began to retrace their steps along the length of the building with no further conversation. The light pouring upon them through the glass ceiling had transmuted from gold to silver under the clouds massing across the sky. As she watched, the angles of sun above and fountain ahead converged so that the water's fine spray captured the light. A shimmering gossamer rainbow trembled in the air before her, its appearance so insubstantial it seemed a single stray breath might be its end.

"Oh!" she said in delight, enchanted by the dancing colours. "I'd forgotten this happens in summer. Isn't it lovely?"

"Yes, it is."

Happy to be sharing this ephemeral pleasure after so much awkwardness, intending to say more, she turned towards Chakotay. He was smiling down at her so sweetly that all the words flew right from her head. 

"Yes," she heard herself echo faintly, and was instantly mortified. What in Heaven's name was the matter with her? Even in her youth she had never behaved in such a silly way. To do so now, as a grown woman, was really quite insupportable. With a stern instruction to comport herself more appropriately, Janeway returned her gaze to the fountain's safer aspect.

They walked on a little longer in silence. 

At length, Chakotay said, "I have long wished to apologise for my behaviour when last we met. I was most ungracious to you that day. I am ashamed to think of the things I said."

"When one is imprisoned for a crime of which one is innocent, I do not believe there is any call whatsoever to be gracious," she said lightly.

"To you there is."

The weight of his gaze and the warmth of his tone were enough to return her to a thoroughly discomposed state. She could not meet his eyes. It was impossible that he should mean these things in any measure beyond true kindness, yet she had no idea what she might do if she allowed herself to look at him just then.

"I admit I _was_ distressed by our meeting," she said slowly. "At the time I did not understand all the particulars of the case. I thought you angry with me."

"Angry with you? For what reason?"

The genuine surprise of his question soothed a small corner of her sore heart. 

"Our parting, prior to your arrest... It was not what I would have wished. There is so much of that day I regret."

Chakotay did not speak for some time. They were just past the fountain, now absent its rainbow, when Janeway heard his quiet voice again. 

"I was not angry with you, Captain. I was afraid."

"Of course," she hurried to say. "That is only natural, under the circumstances."

"You misapprehend me. I was afraid not for myself, but for you."

"For me?" Now she did look at him, but his gaze was fixed ahead, revealing him to her only in profile.

"Somehow, I don't know how, Seska was able to send a message to me the morning of the second day of my imprisonment. Her message delivered a very potent threat to you and to your family should I speak a word of what I knew."

Janeway halted immediately. "Why did you not tell me this?" she demanded.

Chakotay was a few steps ahead before he stopped and turned back. "I know you too well, Captain. Knowledge of the threat would have spurred you to act rather than cautioned you. The only way I could see to preserve your safety was to ensure that you were far removed from me." As if revoking those words, he closed the distance between them. "I know now that my silence might have meant the deaths of many. It is... difficult to reconcile my actions in light of that. But I cannot say with certainty I would have acted differently even had I known. I — I could not bear any harm to come to you, not for my sake."

Staggered, disbelieving, she stared into his face. Her thoughts seemed to spin in a chaos of incomplete fragments. "What are you telling me, Chakotay? That you would put my life before your own? You would put my life before the lives of countless others?"

"Yes."

The firm response, uttered without hesitation, shocked her further.

"Did you think I would _thank_ you for it?"

"No. I know that you wouldn't." He lowered his head briefly as if to gather himself. "But I do not know how I could live with myself otherwise."

Shaken, Janeway paced ahead, emotions roiling violently with every short, harsh breath she took. Hands curled into fists, she rounded on him. "And you have the gall to accuse _me_ of needless sacrifice? Your life and so many others! Of all the short-sighted, senseless—" She could barely speak for the nameless thing clawing its way up from deep within her. Her past and present seemed to commingle, elide, become one so that everything, all of it, happened at once. As a flint strikes steel, her confusion and alarm collided with memory to spark a white-hot blaze. The words felt like blades being flung from her throat, loud and sharp and slashing her to ribbons as they flew. 

"A captain does not abandon her ship. Trafalgar was _my_ fault. I owed it to every member of my crew, to their families, to do whatever was necessary to get them home. My death would have been inconsequential if it meant another's life was saved, yet two good women are dead because they saved me when it was I who should have saved them. Their families are bereft because of a decision I made."

Chakotay stood resolute in the face of her speech, as unmoved by her outpourings as steadfast cliffs withstand the pounding of the sea. "Would those women, would any of your crew, have rejoiced at the death of their captain?"

"That is not the point," Janeway ground out.

"Then what is?"

Why did he not _understand_? Why did no one? She was adrift in an agony of remorse and unfulfilled purpose, with the raw, unhealed wound at the centre of her being coruscating like the north star. How could they fail to see? Her face every day in the mirror only served as a reminder of her failure: a captain who had survived her ship. 

In a desolate voice, she said, "I should not have lived."

The orangery was very quiet, then.

Chakotay walked towards her until they stood so close she had to raise her head to meet his eyes. "Those women died because they believed your life worth saving," he said in a hard voice. "Have you so little respect for them that you will stand here now and call them mistaken? Will you rob their deaths of meaning to feed your own useless guilt?"

For several moments, she could only look at him, stupefied. "You don't know—"

"They wanted you to live!" he roared. "That is what I know. And I know that had I the good fortune to be one of your crew, Captain, I assure you that your death would have brought me no comfort. I would have done everything in my power to prevent it, even if it cost me my own life."

The sheer force of his impassioned declaration propelled Janeway backwards two steps in stunned reaction. Chakotay's countenance bore a fierceness she had never witnessed, not even when she first knew him as Le Chevalier. Now she saw him as he might have been — a proud, noble warrior — and was both daunted and humbled.

"You mustn't say such things," she told him, not quite steadily.

He sighed, a weary sound, and bowed his head as if meeting with defeat. "Why not, if they are the truth?"

"You — your life is to be treasured. You should not value it below mine, or anyone's."

His eyes met hers again. "That is not your choice to make."

Janeway could not think or speak, could scarcely breathe. It was as if she'd been scorched by the heat of their exchange, excoriated beyond comprehension or feeling.

The silence between them lengthened and grew brittle. 

Chakotay sighed again, then looked toward the door. "I fear I have occupied too much of your time today, Captain. I shall take my leave."

He bowed, his expression shuttered. 

He turned from her and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the real battle of trafalgar was an unqualified success for the british, with no ships lost; however, i needed a tragic voyager parallel in my universe, so while it remains a victory for the british here, janeway's ship was destroyed along the way. i posted a couple of graphic thingies on tumblr, which i made to stop myself from setting this chapter on fire and throwing it out of a window. feel free to look at them if you find yourself in the same boat: [janeway's](https://hoidn.tumblr.com/post/631161643786747904/) & [chakotay's](https://hoidn.tumblr.com/post/631253275313881088/). as always, if you see something, say something. and by 'something' i mean whatever i've done wrong this time.


	7. Chapter 7

Beyond the glass walls, Chakotay walked away from her again. This time no armed soldiers escorted him; he was leaving of his own accord. He had left. 

Janeway stared at the copper doorknob, the last thing he had touched, wondering if it would still bear any trace of his warmth from contact so fleeting. Grasp, turn, pull, release. How long would he have held it? One second? Two? So little time in which to signify so much.

The fountain played a mournful minor key to her ears. Beneath its melody wound an unfamiliar counterpoint: a faltering and ragged sound. It took too long for Janeway to recognise the harshness of her own breathing. She curled her fingers inwards against her palms, concentrating on the sharp bite of her nails into the soft flesh, and counted to ten. Counted again, and then again, until the air passing in and out of her lungs grew regular and even.

Outside the shelter of the orangery, a howl was building in the voice of the wind. She heard it gathering force as she watched what was earth-bound tossed about with a fractious sort of violence, in the way of a child who is denied; a child who, in her anger, destroys her playthings, feeling bitter satisfaction that later turns to remorse and regret. With a grim sense of recognition, Janeway reflected that the most difficult to bear of any loss was one for which there was no other party responsible.

She felt herself standing at the edge of a precipice already crumbling beneath her feet. She felt too much altogether; Chakotay made her feel too much. He pushed at the boundaries of her self, caused her to question everything she believed she understood. No part of her had been left unchanged by his gentle influence; every atom of her being now bore his indelible mark.

If only she could resent him for such transformation.

Lightning flared in the distance: a bright ripple spanning the entire sullen sky. In its flash, in the space between moments, the probable future unfolded and Janeway saw plainly the shape of what was to be. Society's opprobrium would fall down upon Seska to the fullest. Her every word and deed would be relentlessly recounted, examined, and sifted to seek out falsehood and deceit, treachery and schemes. In parlours and clubs, at dining tables and card parties, such thorough scrutiny of every detail would prove that naught from her liar's lips should be trusted. Doubt would seep through every aspect of her history until its foundations simply washed away.

A time would come then, in the weeks and months that followed, when those who had been cast down by her stained hand would be restored with its excision. In the analeptic light that shone over Seska's disgrace would Chakotay be thus redeemed. Though his reputation might never recover its wholly unsullied complexion, its elevation would prove sufficient for a woman with character and wisdom enough to comprehend his worth.

And he would marry such a woman.

Janeway's throat constricted painfully with something like grief. Her hands would not be still; they chafed restlessly at one another in motions bereft of purpose. Alive within her burned the knowledge that if she allowed Chakotay this parting, if she accepted with strict finality what had already been said, all of this would come to pass. One step beyond her gate would place him as far removed and unreachable as the moon.

Her heart seemed to batter at her ribs like a bird wild to escape its cage but too frantic to comprehend how injurious were its own exertions. In a place deeper and more undefinable than reason, Janeway at last apprehended what her friends so earnestly wished her to understand: that there was no valour or virtue in holding herself apart, yoked to implacable duty; that to yield, at times, demanded a greater strength of self than to contest.

When thunder's call to arms rumbled through the air, she had no notion of how much time had passed. A few minutes perhaps, she thought; surely no more than that. Not enough time for Chakotay to have got beyond the house. 

Her stomach knotted. A desperate resolution was forming within her and she did not dare think on it too closely. 

Lightning flashed again.

She flung open the door and ran.

§

He cast a dark figure on the path, his unprotected head bowed against the whipping wind. Janeway called his name but the word was ripped from her mouth and flung away. High above, a great river of clouds churned in air far more frenzied, as the storm raced towards them. She raced towards Chakotay with her hair flying wild about her face, uncaring who might see. All thoughts of decorum, of propriety, were banished by the urgency of her purpose.

"Wait!" she cried at a closer distance. "Wait, please."

He stopped then, looked back, and she thought his posture stiffened. The sharp slap of her boots on the cobbles subsided as she slowed her pace to catch her breath.

"Is something amiss, Captain?" he enquired when she drew near, turning to face her fully.

"No, there is nothing wrong," she assured him. "Forgive me, I... I wanted..."

Her words trailed off with a distinct lack of grace as she came to stand before him. His look was cautious, yet there was such softness, such patience, in his dark eyes. Janeway felt herself thoroughly bewitched by the silent eloquence of their expression. They held hers calmly even as the wind boiled about their bodies and plucked at their clothes. She knew somehow with certainty that he would stay here with her for as long as she required, simply because she wished it. The thought stirred both comfort and confusion in her breast. After all that had passed between them, she could not imagine how it was that he believed her deserving of attentiveness so steadfast and true.

Cold pinpricks stung her exposed skin—the first spatters of rain—and awakened her from her daze. With a wry smile, she said, "Perhaps we ought to remove indoors."

§

Fires had already been lit in several rooms to ward off the unseasonable chill. Janeway once again silently blessed Tuvok's seemingly inexhaustible foresight in this as in everything else. Upon gaining her study, she removed her lightly dampened coat and cravat, and invited Chakotay to do the same. It was entirely improper, she knew, but sartorial propriety had never been a frequent companion of theirs in the past. The deficiency seemed far too well-established for her to go to the trouble of correcting now. 

In her shirtsleeves, she poured them each a splash of brandy. Chakotay took his glass with a murmur of thanks in a voice that sounded oddly thin to her ears. Though the roar of the wind had been muffled by brick and glass, its echo was still resounding faintly. The skin of her face and hands was likewise haunted: by a tingling almost-vibration, as if she were a bell in the last throes of being rung.

Another growl of thunder rolled overhead. Janeway took a sip of her brandy and turned her eyes to the window. Already the rain was falling much harder than it had been only minutes before.

"The heart of the storm is almost upon us, I think," Chakotay said quietly.

"Yes," she replied, taking another sip. The brandy slid smoothly down her throat, its warmth blooming in her stomach and seeping into her very blood so thoroughly that even the memory of cold was soon erased.

In this more agreeable state, Janeway raised her hands and attempted to restore some order to her hair. Several of the pins were snarled quite badly from the force of the wind, leaving her an unruly mess once they were untangled. While she worked to fashion a simple chignon, she turned to Chakotay with the intent of making apology for her state of dishevelment. 

His expression stopped her tongue entirely. Upon his features was a look she had never before seen there: wonder, perhaps, or something like it. Her hands stilled. His eyes met hers and immediately lowered. 

A new tension took root in the space between them.

"I'm afraid I have not Wildman's proficiency at dressing my hair," Janeway said with an effort at lightness, though her stomach fluttered. "She will be displeased that Nature has so viciously undone her handiwork."

Chakotay made no response but swallowed the remains of his brandy and set down the glass. After a long moment of studious attention to the grain of her desk, he said, "May I enquire as to the reason you have delayed my departure, Captain?"

Her stomach's flutters were thoroughly quelled with its sinking. The question was a deceptively simple one; certainly one to which he had every right of an answer, if only she had it to give. Until now, her sole object had been to keep him within her reach. Any consideration of her desires beyond that aim had remained deliberately nebulous in her mind, for fear of bright clarity's dissuasion. 

Now she studied the glass she cradled in both hands, acknowledging the irony of a sailor who had charted hundreds of courses in her career having not the faintest idea of how to achieve this particular destination. At length, she said simply, "I did not wish you to go." 

Even as the words left her mouth, Janeway dearly wished to take them back. They seemed facile, even mocking, and their effect on Chakoty was palpable. He did not shift in any detectable fashion, yet she felt the change in him, as though he had drawn himself inwards, away from her. 

"I am here, as you see."

His tone made clear that his presence was on sufferance only. Though it was no more than she deserved, the implication stung.

"Yes. Thank you." She drained the last of her brandy, but its warmth proved a miserly substitute for the warmth of his eyes, which now observed her coolly. "Perhaps we might sit?" 

Rather than taking her place behind the desk as she would have done at another time, Janeway chose a chair near to Chakotay, with the hope that he would understand her gesture as it was meant: a sincere attempt to signify their parity. He regarded her with an expression of polite interest but no more, and the certainty she had felt outside on the path faded to nothing. In its place only a tremulous fear remained. 

"I hardly know how to begin," she confessed with a rueful smile. 

"Is your purpose so very impenetrable?" he asked evenly.

"No, I suppose it isn't." Feeling mildly chastened, Janeway glanced to the window, then down at her hands, but found no guidance in either location. Her hands she folded together, drawing strength from the strength of their joining. "It is difficult for me to discuss, that is all. Even at such times when I wish to be more forthcoming in regards to... matters of the heart, there seems within me to be that which occludes my attempts at expression. It has been so for most of my life and I confess there came a time when I simply ceased to make any real effort to surmount the impediment." She gave a somewhat stilted laugh. "Despite having prided myself on facing obstacles with directness, in this quarter I have singularly lacked the fortitude to address my own failings. Indeed, I have recently discovered myself to be something of a coward."

"No," Chakotay said at once, his indifference replaced with quiet vehemence. "You are possessed of more courage than anyone I have ever known."

She contemplated him, this man whose generosity of spirit moved him to defend her even to herself, and knew she was a fool twice over. He could no more be expelled from her heart by will or by absence than she could fix the sun in one place in the heavens above. Nor could she ever truly want to accomplish such a thing, no matter how she might dissemble.

"You are too good, sir."

He fidgeted and tugged at his ear. "I cannot agree with you on that score."

"You are also too modest," she said, with a smile of real delight.

In the face of his answering smile, a sweet pain stole into her chest, billowing out into a gentle, luminous ache. With no more inducement than this, her turmoil of mind and heart came at last to peace. Understanding broke over her in the span of an instant, as revelations are wont to do. What she felt for Chakotay was beyond all volition. It was not rational; it could neither be quantified nor subdued. And therein lay her deepest fear: to be helpless in the grip of a power so entirely outside herself. 

In this recognition lay a further epiphany, so profound it seemed as if a sun had risen within her to banish the dark. What were the seas, what were the winds, if not powers into which she had placed her fate on occasions innumerable? Her explorer's heart rejoiced in the challenge of the extrinsic, yet shied from its own essential mysteries. Janeway wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity thus revealed within her deepest self. What she feared and what she embraced were the same, for what was the love between a man and a woman if not an adventure into the greatest of unknowns? 

By this new consciousness she was buoyed, refreshed, renewed. Her spirits that had long suffered in discord and strife now fairly burst with eager vigour. She looked into Chakotay's eyes, felt connexion light between them. As it had on that very first day at Ascani's, it affected her like a swift, illuminating touch. 

"Chakotay." She spoke in confirmation, in recognition, and awash with the elation of discovery. "To think that a year ago, I had not even heard your name. Now I cannot imagine how I did without you. I cannot imagine another day the same."

His eyes on hers were dark and wide. His full lips were slightly parted as he simply stared at her, a myriad of indecipherable expressions passing swiftly over his face.

The great surfeit of emotion holding Janeway in its grip demanded to be made manifest and expressed through the body. She stood from her chair. Exhilaration flowed through her veins as she took two quick steps forward, then back again, hardly knowing what she would say, only that she _must_ speak. 

"I think you cannot fail to have some idea of my regard for you, sir. And I think that you are not indifferent to me."

Chakotay blushed but held her gaze. "No. I am — I am not indifferent." Her heart leapt and she smiled widely; she could not help it. "As to your regard, I... must admit to some uncertainty."

Her smile fell. 

It was a truth no less painful to hear for all its justice, though she could not begrudge him such doubt. The hurts he inflicted upon her were as nothing to what he must himself have borne. Janeway felt this, accepted it, and saw that the only right action was exposure: to bare completely her innermost heart. Until today, she had held fear before her as though it were a shield. Now her shield had crumbled and she stood unprotected in an unfamiliar land. What consequences befell her here, for good or for ill, she would bear for the sake of restoring Chakotay's injured trust.

"You must think me quite callous, I am sure," she said with regret, "though I swear to you it was never my intention to be cruel. In truth, I have misjudged a great deal, myself, I think, most of all." Desiring some means by which to humble herself before him, she sank to her knees, then sat back upon her heels at his feet in the manner of a child or a servant. "I can conceive of no remedy adequate to my transgressions, but I should like to explain myself, if you will allow it."

His face betrayed great shock. "Captain, truly, this is unnecessary. I hold no ill will towards you, nor do I have any expectation of being taken into your confidence regarding matters which are none of my concern."

"Forgive me, but I believe it _is_ necessary. This is a matter with which you are intimately concerned."

Chakotay frowned in confusion and, she thought, a certain trepidation. "I don't understand."

"I know that I have come to this in a very roundabout fashion," Janeway admitted ruefully, "and I shall not attempt to detain you beyond the telling, but please allow me to say this now." At his murmured acquiescence, she continued, "I spoke earlier of my misjudgement. The truth of the matter is that for many years now I have laboured under a misapprehension. I had... deceived, I suppose, is the correct word. I had deceived myself into a certain way of thinking. That duty required me to lock away a part of myself in the cause of some greater good. Only recently have I come to an understanding of the hurts I have caused others through acting on this fallacy."

"And those you have caused to yourself?"

His question cut her to the quick. Looking up into his dear face, she felt the uselessness of any explanation to convey the depths of her contrition or the astonishing breadth of her new vantage. The world had expanded and narrowed inexplicably, to define a single, cardinal truth.

"I love you, Chakotay."

His mouth fell open. His eyes fixed upon her, wide and unblinking.

With a slightly stunned laugh at her own impulsiveness, Janeway said, "This moment would not be so lacking in ceremony were I not so entirely unprepared. I have no poetry to offer you or pretty words to profess. And yet, I hope..." She faltered as her heart stumbled then raced on, seeming intent on beating its way out of her chest. "Will you do me the very great honour of accepting my hand?"

"You— I—" Chakotay shook his head, then seemed to gather himself, speaking with a certain urgency. "Captain, you are not serious. This would be a very bad match for you. I have neither fortune nor connections to offer. My reputation alone would cost you dearly."

"I do not care." 

Bewilderment animated his handsome face. "I don't... I don't understand. You cannot be serious. It is but a few months since you were sure we must never see one another again. What can have changed since then?"

"Everything has changed since then!" Janeway took his nearest hand in both of hers. "Chakotay, these last months I have lived what has felt like a lifetime without you. I know now there is nothing worth that pain, certainly nothing so cold and unloving as duty."

"But—"

"I know what I said then, and yes, my conclusions were correct in some respects. There _were_ barriers between us that could not be surmounted without great sacrifice. But the larger part of my conviction was rooted in the belief that my duty lay in self-abnegation. Don't you see?" she implored him. "I was afraid."

"Afraid? Of me?"

Unaccountably, she felt herself blush like a girl. "Of... what I feel for you, yes."

His dark eyes searched her face. "Captain, I am... Please believe that I am deeply honoured by your proposal, but I could not countenance your giving up so much for my sake. Your family, your sister, your nieces and nephews. They would be materially disadvantaged by an alliance between us."

For the merest flicker of a moment, Janeway wished he were not quite such an honourable man. 

"There will be some who scorn our acquaintance on principle, I grant you. But with Seska's ruin fresh in the minds of everyone, no damage done will be irreparable, nor will it be difficult to bear. As to family, you should know that my sister is possessed of a foresight with which I had not credited her, having all but proclaimed her approval by post. So you see, the only opinion of consequence to me in this matter belongs to you."

He shook his head slowly. "The stain of rumour will cling to me no matter how much time passes. There will always be those who wonder and speculate on what truths were contained in her lies. I cannot subject your good name to gossip and slander."

The words were firm, yet in his slight hesitance Janeway sensed that he wavered. "I know my own mind, Chakotay, and my own heart. You are essential to my happiness. Refuse me for your own sake, if that is what you choose, but not for mine."

He only looked at her and did not speak.

Though not a refusal outright, his silence offered no encouragement to her hopes. She knew enough to perceive its intent and to comprehend her wretched mistake.

Icy numbness began to trickle into her chest. The sting of tears pricked her eyes. She lowered them to regard the hand she held between her two. Already, its warmth felt distant, as of a room whose door had closed at her approach. She released them, both hand and warmth, and laid her own to rest limply in her lap. Chakotay's fingers twitched once before they curled inwards against his palm, away from her.

Her legs had lost their feeling and she could not move. She could not meet his gaze. Within some last reserve of strength, Janeway found her voice. "Please forgive me for having taken up so much of your time. I shan't detain you further." 

The noise of the storm was terrible. The silence, worse. Mired in helpless stalemate, she waited. 

Chakotay's voice, when he spoke at last, was low and rough. 

"You truly wish me for your husband." 

Janeway looked up in astonishment. He had not posed a question, but she answered nonetheless. "I do."

Wonderment was slowly dawning over his features. "In spite of everything?"

"Yes. If you will have me."

His face lit as if from within. "If I will...? You cannot doubt — I never imagined—" Words seemed to tumble from his mouth before he could catch them up. He moved as he spoke until both of her hands were united with his. Somewhat breathlessly, he recovered himself to say, "Yes, I will, of course I will, yes."

Unrestrained laughter burst from her in a flood—euphoric, relieved—as they clung to one another. His dark eyes shone and the smile that graced his lips was wide and unrestrained. 

"I love you," he said fervently. "I think I have loved you since the day we met."

Overcome by such heights of feeling, Janeway could only lift their joined hands and press passionate, joyful kisses to his. They trembled, or hers did, she could not determine. Perhaps the whole earth shook. 

Chakotay offered her another heart-stopping smile. "I think this must be a dream," he said, just as thunder bellowed overhead.

They both startled and she laughed again for sheer exuberance. "I hardly think so. The weather is not at all conducive. And I am sure you would find a far better choice of wife in a dream. A marchioness at the very least."

"No." His countenance once again grew earnest. "There could be none better. Your goodness, your devotion to justice and honour, your kindness and compassion... I know I am unworthy of you."

"Unworthy of me?" This time, her laugh was disbelieving. "How can you think such a thing?"

He slid from his chair to mirror her pose on the carpet. "For almost all my life, I have lived a lie."

"For your safety, Chakotay. You have acted in no way dishonourably." 

"Others would disagree with you."

"Others would be wrong."

He smiled a little, but it was thin and insubstantial, a mere ghost of his natural radiance. Janeway pressed closer so that their knees met, seeking to imbue him with her own conviction. Their fingers she entwined, for she could not bear to relinquish his hands, and he seemed disinclined to retrieve them.

After long moments, Chakotay spoke again with an unusual timidity. "There is something I must confess to you. I thought to tell you a hundred times, only it seemed of little consequence then. Now, though..."

In such contact as they were, Janeway felt his uneasy shifting, saw the strong column of his throat move with his swallow. Unsure as to the cause of his unease or how to assuage it, she offered him the truth. "I hope you know that you may tell me anything. I wish us to be frank with one another."

"Thank you. I am glad of it." In what seemed a contradiction of his words, he withdrew his hands from hers, twisting them together until his knuckles rose up starkly beneath their enclosing skin. His eyes remained fixed on them as he spoke. "When Seska first approached me, I was flattered. She was beautiful and charming, with a great deal of influence. Her partiality was marked but not improper and I felt it quite keenly, though I swear to you, I had no thought of anything beyond friendship. Very quickly, however, she gave me certain indications that she... that she cared for me." He sighed heavily. "You will think me horribly naïve, but I believed her."

"Of course you did," Janeway said gently. "How could you have had any idea of what she was? No one knew."

A more genuine smile curved his lips, but his eyes remained downcast. "You are too generous, Captain. Indeed, I _was_ very foolish, for I permitted her persuasion, perhaps even invited it. I unwisely allowed myself to be swept up in the seduction of an increasingly intimate acquaintance. I did nothing to check either its rapidity or its very public progression. It can come as no surprise to you that it was not long before I found myself utterly compromised."

"She seduced you."

"No," Chakotay said, with a direct look at last. "No, you see, that is the great irony of my circumstances. The entirety of our acquaintance was merely a clever orchestration. There was artifice in every moment, from beginning to end. Seska wanted me to _appear_ her corteso, but she had no real use for me in that regard. Once the degradation of my reputation was complete, she made certain I understood that she had no interest in innocents. Her lovers were selected for their skills and experience, of which I had none. While in company with me she flirted shamelessly, but in private I was barely acknowledged. Thus, did I become the infamous Le Chevalier, admired by all and had by none."

He concluded with a wry twist of his lips, an eloquent contrast to the shadow of pain he was unable to hide.

"I beg your pardon?" Janeway murmured indistinctly.

Her thoughts were all confusion. Such depravity, even from a woman she already knew to be despicable, sickened her. To destroy a young man's character in the eyes of the world and engineer his downfall for sheer sport — it defied comprehension. Yet, try as she might, she could hold fast to neither the gravity of the crime nor its consequences. All the power of his confession distilled for her into the final words he had uttered. Their meaning in its purest form possessed her mind until all else was eclipsed. 

With an obvious effort to mask his discomfort, Chakotay replied, "I have never... lain with her. With anyone."

Could it be? Janeway struggled to make some sense of this extraordinary information against the scattered disorder of memory. She recalled her own surprise at his response to her kisses: so untutored, so lacking in artifice. She cast her eye further, over the whole of their acquaintance, and felt herself reeling. There had been signs all along, she now saw. How many others had she failed to recognise by refusing the truths of her own senses? 

Chakotay, then, had been as chaste as a young man ought to be. It was Janeway herself who had sullied his virtue so carelessly.

She pressed one hand to her cheek in shocked distress. "Oh, Chakotay, forgive me. Had I known, I should never—"

"Please," he said quickly, pulling her hand gently from her face and into his warm grasp. His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before lifting again. "Please, do not say that. I can regret no part of what occurred between us. I would wish you to feel the same." 

There was such earnest entreaty in his voice that she felt she could have refused him nothing, even were he not the injured party. "My only regret would be yours."

"Then... you are not disappointed?"

"Disappointed?"

"That I do not know how—how to—" His blush grew fiercer as he struggled for words. "To please you," he managed at last. 

How young he looked then, and how vulnerable. Janeway was reminded sharply of the difference in years between them, for he was not yet one and twenty. "Is it so easy to believe I would begrudge you your innocence?" she asked softly.

He studied their clasped hands. "You thought me a corteso. I would not blame you for feeling a measure of disenchantment."

"Chakotay," she murmured, raising her other hand to his smooth cheek. Her fingertips drew a path along his jaw, then slipped down to rest upon his shoulder. "I feel nothing but the very great joy of your acceptance. You and I will learn together how best to please one another when we are wed. I have every confidence that we shall prove as well-matched in our marriage bed as we have been on the piste." 

His dark eyes raised to hers once more and the look in them stole her breath. "You will think me quite without shame, but I confess on that day at Ascani's..." He blushed again, but held their gaze. "I had never been so affected by a lady as I was then. You have captivated me since the first moment I saw you."

 _Good God._

Janeway's entire body flooded with deliciously heady awareness. Surely, she thought, no woman could be expected to respond to such a declaration in any rational manner. The very air between them seemed to thrum with expectation. "And you me."

His smile was slow and a little shy. "I am glad that only you will... know me in that way. That I may give myself wholly to you."

Tenderness muted her desire with the sweetest ache. She reached up to cup the curve of his cheek in her palm, thrilling as he leaned into the touch. His eyes fluttered shut and his plush lips parted as though he'd let out the slightest sigh. Thoroughly enamoured, she closed the short distance between them to rest her brow against his. The warmth of his skin infused her and spread through her veins as sunlight fills a dim room. She tilted her head just so and pressed her mouth to his, felt the press of his mouth in return, the soft sigh that washed over her lips, then the shakily indrawn breath that followed. 

Desire weighted her limbs, made her movements languid and lingering. She devoted herself to a slow, careful exploration of his lips, lavishing attention upon each in turn. First the shapely upper with its cunning bow, then the opulent lower in all its fullness. She surveyed their contours with delicate strokes of her tongue before taking one and then the other to test between her own lips. His soft gasps she sipped at as though the finest wine, drinking down his pleasure with amorous delight. 

They were lost to the room about them, to the storm overhead, wholly contained within their own heated creation. When her tongue dipped at last into his mouth, he opened for her eagerly with a tiny sound and she felt a sympathetic pulse between her thighs. Cupping the back of his neck to bring him closer, her tongue brushed against his, licked teasingly along the sharp edges of his teeth. He grew more confident by the moment, matching her caresses with his own until it was she who gasped for him. 

Before passion could lead them truly astray, Janeway broke their fervent kiss. Laying her brow once more against Chakotay's, she murmured, "I hope for both of our sakes that you do not wish for a long engagement."

"No, Captain," he said rather breathlessly.

On a quiet chuckle at their shared folly, she said, "I am glad to hear it." Then, releasing him in order to meet his eyes, she added, "My name is Kathryn, you know."

He dimpled in a thoroughly disarming fashion. "Yes."

"Perhaps you should begin practicing it now," she suggested, touching the tip of her finger to one alluring dip, "so that you will have no trouble recollecting it when we are in church."

He caught up her hand against his lips, pressing a kiss to the centre of her palm, and in a voice she would remember until her final breath, he said, "Kathryn, your name has been inscribed upon my heart since the day we met."

§

**The Times**  
August 31, 18__

MARRIAGES

On Wednesday, at the Church of St Margaret, Captain K Janeway of ___________shire, daughter of Vice Admiral G Janeway, to Mr C d'Orvan, of London.

◼︎


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